A Laurie Studio Blog

Aboriginal Art & Big Red Rocks

2009-06-30T12:15:00.001-07:00

Dec 2-5, 2008: Friends of friends from France invited me to stay with them in Alice Springs, an interesting town with a mixture of white descendants of settlers, aborigines from the Lost Generation or tribal ejection, and rich civilian contractors and military personnel from the American military base. The base sits just outside of Alice Springs and is considered the safest place in the world, since any enemy would have to fly over something like 13000 km to reach it and then try to fly out again. Of course, flying in from Melbourne and out to Sydney felt more like inconvenience rather than safe but reminded me how huge Australia really is.

I was picked up for my tour early Wednesday morning for a 6 hour drive out to Ayers Rock: 6 hours, 5 tourists, 4 bottles of water, 1 guide, 2 in-training, and an ostrich in a pear tree. Originally I thought I'd climb Ayers Rock, but when I started looking into tours, many of them suggested that tourists not climb because it is sacred land for the Anangu, the Aboriginal traditional owners. However, the Anangu welcome tourists (well, to a certain point), but the problem with climbing Uluru is that about 35 people have died in doing so and the Anangu feel responsible for deaths and injuries on their land. I didn't have to worry about it, though, since climbing is prohibited above temperatures of 35 ⁰C and we were already at 40⁰ or so.

The Australian National Park of Uluru and Kata Tjuta, the Anangu names for Ayers Rock and the Olgas, was declared in 1958 by the Australian government, and in theory, the land rights were given back to the Anangu in 1976. However, not until 1985 were the title deeds to Uluru and Kata Tjuta returned to the Anangu, who have now leased the land back to the government for 99 years. Both entities work to preserve the sites and respect each other. There are areas where tourists are not allowed to hike, and other areas, especially around Uluru, where tourists are asked not to take pictures.

The tour company had a hat listed among things to bring, and while I'm usually nice and obedient, I never wear a hat outdoors (now going to the opera and wearing Grandma Margaret's hats circa 1950 from Bullocks Wilshire – that's different). Our guide Phil was very worried about me, and to illustrate his point told me that around these temperatures, the fat under the scalp of sheep will begin to boil and kill them. But I told him that my scalp was about the only place on my body that didn't have any fat so he needn't worry. I have to say, however, that just walking most of the way around the base of Uluru did make me feel a bit weird. Maybe because my hair had already become lighter blonde (the real reason I don't wear hats outside).

Uluru is a monolith, having no cracks all the way through. We began the walk around its base at the Mutitjulu Waterhole. Set against the rock wall of Uluru, the Anangu waited until the end of the day when animals would come to drink. Only one way in and one way out made for easy kill. There was a rock overhang near the waterhole where the Anangu most likely spent the day. In crevices under the overhang were swallows' nests, indicating that the area was in shade all day long since their mud nests need to stay moist. More evidence of the Anangu spending time here was on the wall: iron red, charcoal black, ash white, and ochre. The ochre is not found within the Uluru area, providing evidence that the Anangu had to trade other aboriginies for it. The watering hole was a nice place to hang out, teach the kids, and hunt for food.

Often, it wasn't the parents who would teach their own children, but rather the eldest, like grandparents or older aunts and uncles. The men had no role as fathers; after conception, the man's job was done since in their culture there is no loyalty to any single member of the tribe. Women could have many children all from different men. This is still traditional in the tribes, as I learned when I bought two small pieces of Aboriginal Art by two different female artists. The storekeeper gave me each of their biographies from which I learned that they didn't have faithful or providing men. Loyalty was to the tribe and having children was a woman's responsibility as much as finding plants for medicine and food.

The boys are taught by the men and the girls by the women in the duties they are responsible for in the society. The teachings happen at different points in the children's lives, but they are taught only what is considered appropriate for that age. The rituals and teachings are done apart from the group – thus the sacred spaces of the Anangu – and the teachings are not spoken of while with the rest of the tribe.

After walking around the base of Uluru, we camped out, not too far from a campground – enough to not hear the noise of the tour buses, but close enough to use the toilets and showers. Up a knoll behind our site we watched the sun set behind the Olgas and stretching red over to Uluru. In the distance was a lightning storm – a perfect complement to the beer and conversation about hiking. Meanwhile Phil cooked up some "kangaroo a la Bolognese", however, Paula, an Italian woman about my age, corrected him that it was simply ragout.

Minyma, the Anangu women, have duties to gather food, plant and harvest crops according to the seasons, read animal tracks, and gather and administer medicinal plants from the bush. The Wati, Anangu men, are responsible for finding water for the tribe, hunting, and making tools for the women and weapons for hunting. The Anangu laws, called Tjukwipa, are the basis of their life – their relationships to people and animals and the land. The Anangu believe the world is flat and featureless, just as the bush, but ancestral beings created it and left their spirit in what they created. This is why Uluru and Kata Tjuta and another "rock", Mount Conner, are so sacred to them: they are anomalies to the rest of their world.

We woke at 5am, late, but since the clouds had moved in, the sunrise over Kata Tjuta wouldn't have been much to see. So we got to sleep in. The clouds brought a wonderful drastic drop in temperature, absolving me of having to spend too much money ($15?) on a hat in a tourist shop. Even without the sunrise, getting up early is important to be able to hit the trail before it closes at about 11am, when temperatures get above 35⁰C. We hiked the "Valley of the Winds" through Kata Tjuta which means "many heads". There are 36 big dome-shaped rocks sticking up out of nowhere, and by big I mean 500m high (200m higher than Uluru) over a space of less than 8 miles². Kata Tjuta is sacred to the Anangu as it is the location where many of the men's rituals and teaching is done.

Previously, Phil had asked us to consider how Uluru and Kata Tjuta were formed and gave us a few clues. While Uluru is made of mud-sandstone, Kata Tjuta is granite and quartz. Striations in the sandstone of Uluru are vertical, while Kata Tjuta is more diagonal. The granite is formed closer to the earth's core than the quartz. Green granite attracts lightning. It is plentiful here, and Phil said that farms that have green granite in the soil have a much higher value because the granite attracts the lightning and rain and produces the best crops. His questions and clues occupied my head during the hikes.

After hiking the Valley of the Winds from 7-11 am, we were ready for camel burgers and the ride out to Kings Canyon, the site of the next day's hike. This evening's camp felt more like being out in the bush, with a 3-sided toilet completed by a view of the mountains. We were rewarded with a beautiful sunset made interesting by the clouds that had rolled along with us all day. I picked up some charcoal from the previous camp's fire and sketched. The charcoal was lovely: very smooth and fun to draw with, especially with the incredible lines of the scenery of the day as inspiration.

Finally my body needed attention with some beer, Phil's fabulous BBQ chicken, and my swag – a sleeping bag with a mattress and pillow in it. It was too hot to have any covers except the stars above until unceasing rain began at 2am and drove us sleepy, sore tourists under some shelter.

The difficulties the Anangu had with the whites was not so much territorial, since they were nomadic, but a disruption to their world view and methods of survival. As the whites brought cattle into the area, the water holes of the tribe became useless once the cattle walked into the water to drink. The Anangu never stirred up the waters and did not even bathe in the water in order to preserve its sacredness and cleanliness for the tribe. As a sidenote, Phil gave us an example of how the tribal society was maintained. Not only were individual rights subservient to the tribe, but the members, especially children, were kept in line out of fear. To keep kids away from playing by the water in order to keep it clean, the women would tell them the Waterman would blind them if they got too close. When a child did venture too close to the watering hole, some plant extract (I forgot the name) was diluted and put on the child's eyes while he was sleeping. Upon awakening, the child's vision was blurry and the women said the Waterman had already gotten some of his water in their eyes. While the potency wasn't enough to permanently alter the child's vision, his respect for keeping distance from the watering holes was permanent. This plant extract was also ingested when the tribe needed to move and find a new watering hole. The walk could last days, and this medicine completely bound their system: they would not sweat or salivate or eliminate, so all the body's water was conserved. Once arriving at a new watering hole, they ingested another medicine like a laxative to re-open the body. Phil also showed us a medicinal cactus that can be used for deep cuts because is kills all bacteria then leaves residue which seals the wound. It protects for 2-3 days, even while swimming. Eucalyptus is also a universal medicine, from colds to cleansing.

So to protect their water and ancestral spirits, the Anangu began spearing the cattle of the white settlers. The police retaliated by shooting any aborigine they saw. So began the Displacement of the aboriginies. The settlers didn't particularly take land away from them, but ruined their sources of water and places of learning. The whites didn't understand how the Anangu related to their land since it is quite different to how we relate to it. It was equivalent to taking their places of worship – churches, temples, mosques – away from them. To this day, aborigines in the cities may fight each other, as they have different beliefs coming from different tribes, but they immediately unite against the white police. And those who are in the cities in the first place are usually those who were ejected from their tribes for irresponsible behavior – usually alcoholism – which doesn't exactly improve race relations in the cities.

Aside from Displacement, the relations between whites and aboriginies were made even worse by the good intentions of the whites. In order for the Anangu to survive, individual rights are completely irrelevant. They are a nomadic tribe, therefore any sick or crippled member threatened the survival of the whole tribe. It was normal for the weak member to just walk away from the tribe – to walkabout – into the bush, which meant suicide. As children were rejected from the tribe due to illness or crippling or being disciplined in order for the tribe to survive, they were rescued, usually by missionaries from the Lutheran Church, and brought to the coasts and into white society. This is the Lost Generation, or Intervention, which, like Displacement, broke the Anangu society.

On our way to Kings Canyon, we stopped at a lookout point several miles away from Mount Conner, a flat plateau which looked to be about the height of Uluru and rising just as mysteriously from the flat bush. On the other side of the lookout were salt flats – evidence of an ancient ocean. The aboriginals, with their "primitive" knowledge, related the geographical history of thousands of years ago. Their story explains this with more drama, however, than a geography textbook. An ice man (not the Top Gun kind) of salty water ran north to chase invaders off his land but ran so far north that the heat began to melt him. With exhaustion, he sat down on Mount Conner (which is named by the Anangu as "Ice Man"). Finally acknowledging that he wasn't going to make it back south to the cold, he kicked out the sides of the mountain in anger. His death by melting created the ancient sea where the salt remained. Mount Conner is actually more geologically impressive than Uluru, but the aboriginals have kept this land to themselves, and no tourists can get close.

Now for the textbook version, though no less dramatic. Australia was covered by 2km-deep sea about 600M years ago (the dinosaurs were around 50-60M years ago). Australia is the oldest landmass in the world and also has the youngest population/settlement – only 230 years, compared to 2000-5000 years for most of the rest of the world. Mt Conner used to be 4 times the height of Everest but is now only about 1000 feet. It is sinking as Australia moves apart and expands, and the continent also moves 2cm/year in a northwest direction.

Sandstone is white, and Uluru is actually grey, but gases rich in iron came out thru volcanic activity, met with the oxygen in the atmosphere and rusted. This is why the whole continent is red, but it wasn't the original colour. The inclusions in Uluru are caused by internal water exiting and eroding, while for Kata Tjuta the inclusions are caused by lightning strikes to pieces of green granite in the formations. The granite was like mortar in volcanic interactions under intense heat. The black vertical marks are caused by water eroding the iron rust and exposing the true granite colour. The striations on Uluru are vertical: the layers formed horizontally as layer upon layer of sediment was laid down at the bottom of the sea. But then all of Uluru was turned on its side when the ocean swept over Australia to carve out the rest of the features of the continent. Uluru is 350m high but is being eroded ~1m/year. However, relative to the surrounding land Uluru is actually growing as sediment around it washes away. Uluru goes down 6-7 km, and the story is that two boys were bored after hunting, so they started piling up mud by the side of the watering hole. They continued until they were on top, and the vertical striations are their fingernail marks as they slid down. I asked Phil if it was a happy ending, and he just smiled.

Luckily, it rained off and on all day in King's Canyon. Except for the extremely fit 65-year-old, we were all getting worn out by the successive days of strenuous hiking and high temperatures. Even one of the guides-in-training opted to stay back with the truck at the trailhead. One of the other girls was debating doing the same, but we didn't come for chit-chat in a parking lot. Phil said that he's hiked King's Canyon over 300 times and it's never rained. I felt blessed since I'm quite sure I wouldn't have made it, especially in my fashionable Geox that I bought in Italy: silver-white sport shoes with no support which are now permanently tinted red.

I picked up some green granite during the hike of Kata Tjuta – I thought it would match my little collection of many coloured rocks, most from a river bed in Peru (but that's another love story). When Phil found out, he said that everyone who's taken green granite has had bad luck, and many have mailed the granite back to him because they believed it was the cause. I have a different God, but I decided that I shouldn't have taken a souvenir out of a national park. I asked Phil to put it back next time he was at KT, but he wouldn't touch it, so I chucked it during the King's Canyon hike.

Then there's the aboriginal art. On our drive out to Uluru, we stopped a few times for refreshments, and most of the stores and cafes had art for sale. One was very well-stocked and of higher quality, and I held up the whole tour to look through the gallery for ½ hour or so. I wanted to buy two medium-sized paintings but then decided not to. However, the images stayed with me during the 3 days in the outback, so I bought them on the way back to Alice. The perspective of the art is looking down, like on a map. Horseshoe shapes signify a person, since that's the impression a person leaves in the sand after sitting down. A woman is a horseshoe beside a basket and digging stick. A man is a horseshoe shape between his fighting stick, arrow, and boomerang. A waterhole is several concentric circles, and a digging hole (to find honey ants and other things to eat) is two concentric circles. The paintings can be very elaborate, with symbols for animal tracks, rain, running water, travelling, ceremonial dress, and all kinds of plants and animals basic to Anangu life.

Running to Stand Still

2009-06-22T11:17:00.001-07:00

(this should have been posted a LONG time ago, like Dec-08, but here it is anyway…)

My flight to Auckland was great. National airlines, being subsidized, are rarely booked, so I had room to spread out and play with my coloured pens in my new sketchbook. Friends of my parents, Heather & Tony, were very sweet to pick me up from the airport, keep my two big red suitcases for the 3 ½ weeks I’d be in Australia and New Zealand, and drive me around Auckland a bit to see the highlights. I saw the Pacific for first time in 8 months! I had a great hotel – the Quadrant: nice and anonymous (well, I suppose that could be taken the wrong way, which I probably would’ve never even thought about except that I was just in Singapore where everything has a double meaning). Anyway, it had a great view of the ocean, although I’m not sure now whether it was the Pacific or Tasman, but no one really cares and neither did I as I fell asleep.

By 10am the next day, I was cruising around Melbourne in my rental car on the wrong side of the street. First stop was to buy a $100 camera to replace my $160 camera that was assaulted by Stella. Next was the groovy part of Melbourne, near the university. I had a great lunch, and after asking the 2 couples sitting next to me about tipping protocol, they told me I was brave to be traveling alone. Never thought of myself as brave – escapist and non-committal and not attached to much in this world are better descriptions, but I figured they didn’t want to hear all about it. The galleries and contemporary art museum are closed on Mondays, as in most cities, so unfortunately I didn’t get to see the Up-and-Coming Center of Art in the Southern Hemisphere. There are also beautiful parks in Melbourne, and I could’ve used a walk after logging so many hours in a plane and car, but I was tired and more enticed by the drive through the dry plains in the direction of the surfing mecca of Australia. Torquay is where Rip Curl started and now hosts the World Surfing Championship each Easter at Bells Beach. After checking into the B&B and being sidetracked by a real estate office (US$250-400k for new modern-looking 3+2 houses near the beach, many with views!!! And annual taxes only $1000/year!), I finally got my walk.

Just east of Bells Beach is a marine preserve, so I walked there for a while since it was low tide. I felt like I was at the end of the world – just the waves and cliffs above me (more anonymity) which at high tide would be joined. Considering it’s just early summer, the water is so warm: a beautiful green and turquoise fading to purple at the horizon to Antarctica. Walking this narrow corridor between cliffs and strong currents, I finally got spooked enough to turn back, but I kept walking, past Bells Beach, with one more beach after another stretching out. I saw a few surfers wrestling with the thick waves, choppy now with wind and high tide rolling in. Otherwise, I saw only 2 people during my walk. For a couple hours I walked with my heart dancing at the desertedness. Finally, even the Committee (the 26 members that sit and argue in my head) was lulled speechless by the rhythm of my footsteps and the waves. The sand under my feet felt so wonderful, and natural, unlike the streets in Singapore that were so clean that I was constantly slipping on them in the rain.

My home in Torquay was a cute little cottage – also anonymous, even though it was a B&B – just up from Bells Beach. So high tide was at 1pm and a session at 10am would’ve been perfect – except that I slept until 2!! 15 HOURS!!! My friends in Singapore (plus the flights) completely wore me out – although I didn’t feel so bad when Christian replied that he slept for 72 hours after seeing me off at the airport. So one more late afternoon of walking, then finally getting a board rented and down to the beach. I was pretty pathetic since I’m so out of shape, but the good thing is that I’ll just have to come back again, ready to surf and maybe buy a house, too.

Disappointed as I was with my surfing performance, I was excited leaving Torquay because of the long, beautiful coast road ahead of me. The Great Coast Road is a bit like Pacific Coast Highway, Route 1, in California. But of course the Great Coast Road has its own beauty and peculiarities. Ancient rainforests, with ferns and beech trees, overlook the blue-green water from red cliffs which then open out to picturesque farm country and little towns having at least one coffee house serving flat whites.

So yes, this is me, in the most beautiful place in the world –me and my Committee driving on down the wrong side of the road. Just as on my Bells Beach walk, we were awestruck by the beauty changing around each corner, and the tranquility! No one else was on the road, and I was driving slowly just because, well, I was savoring this. I checked the rearview often, but as always, just empty. It was a great feeling to be lost like this: being alone, no one knowing where I am, no schedule (not even a B&B reservation yet). The air was fresh and the oceans and skies so clean and clear. The change of scenery and temperature was my entertainment while my playlist furnished the perfect score with some great Australian folksongs: Devil Went Down to Georgia; Girl, You’ll Be a Woman, Soon; LA Song; You Light Up My Life; Espérer; Bailamos; Top Gun Anthem; Rien Ne S’arrête; Running to Stand Still.

Fresh fish and flat whites kept me fueled. I took my time and stopped at deserted trailheads along the road to hike into the rainforest among the giant ferns and waterfalls. However, the Australians have taken a bit of advantage of the incredulous evolutionary history of the area and have made some touristy places to learn more. Now, these weren’t “touristy” by any nominal standard, but each time I was around more than 10 people, I left feeling irritated. (Now I’m scaring myself, picturing a hermit in the hills eating locusts and honey.)

First I went to the Otaway Fly, a huge walkway of swinging steel cable bridges high above the rainforest canopy, as well as at lower levels where less light and more moisture support entirely different plant and animal species. Ferns of all kinds rule the “understories” while the Mountain Ash is the dominant tree as well as the world’s tallest flowering plant. Even birds stick to their favorite altitude, with the Golden Whistler high in the canopy, the White Brown Scrubwren down low, and the Grey Fantail inbetween. Colour is provided by Rose Robins, Crimson Rosellas, and White Throated Tree Creepers. The Fly was fun to walk, with a 47-meter-high tower (and great views) to a 33-meter-high cantilevered bridge (which the guidebook reassured us could hold 14 elephants and is supposed to sway…). The Fly was built in order to provide education and experience in the rainforest while not impacting the delicate ecosystem.

At the southern-most point of the Great Ocean Road is the Cape Otaway Lighthouse, one of the oldest (and most needed for navigation of the coast back in the 1800s when the area was settled). I’m not a history buff or fan of lighthouses (unless I could live in one), but I was sidetracked to the lighthouse by a beautiful narrow road under arches of eucalyptus trees. The lighthouse had closed for the day, but I walked a bit on the trail of the Great Ocean Walk. Just as I was ready to turn around, I walked by a low pine tree with a sleeping koala bear snuggled in the branches at my eye level. I was so excited! I grabbed my camera, and the koala looked at me sleepily but made no attempt to move. As my pictures became more and more redundant, I retraced my footprints with so much excitement that I just had to share. “I just saw my first koala!” I exclaimed to some poor guy walking the other way. He gave me a weird look and polite smile and kept walking. My talents obviously remain in being a hermit.

Back on the Great Ocean Road, the next big camera-clicker is the Twelve Apostles and other fabulous sculptures on the beaches and in the shallow waves and coves. The coastal cliffs have a high limestone composition so the constant water forces carve out various fascinating outcroppings. Again, “lots” of tourists at the 12 Apostles, which are columns of rock in the sea just off the coast. It was cool and windy and the end of the day, though, and the crowd thinned out as I continued down the road to be impressed by many more formations: Razorback, London Bridge, the Martyrs, and Loch Ard Gorge, named after a shipwreck where the only survivors, a 16-year-old socialite and an 18-year-old crew member, found refuge for a few days until they were rescued. Sounds like another Titanic screenplay…

About 9pm, just at dusk, I pulled into a B&B where I’d reserved a cute room in a refurbished train car. I realized that it was more romantic on the internet than inside, but the honeymooners in the next compartment didn’t seem to share my disappointment. After disembarking the train the next morning, I headed further west down the Great Ocean Road to Portland, the furthest I would drive on this trip, though the GOR continues to Adelaide. First I stopped at a little lavender farm to try all kinds of smelly stuff, from lotion to a heat wrap, then pathetically chased the ducks through the lavender fields to get their portraits with my cheap camera. I’d heard something about seeing seals, so I checked into the tourist center and got myself scheduled for a boat tour, then drove on out of town over the sand dunes that connected to a volcanic island, now called Cape Bridgewater. As I rounded the last corner, the scraggly purplish-black cliffs came into view on the horizon above an incredible beach 4 km long with a quaint café and low-key surf club on the sand. The water had me mesmerized, the blues and greens and whites as well as the lines and shape and symmetry. I stopped into the café for a flat white, then walked along the beach and up the volcanic cliff of the Cape and finally back down to a tiny boat shack and dock. Along with a family of 8, I strapped on a life vest and climbed into the big raft with an outboard motor – what they called a boat. And for 45 minutes I couldn’t stop smiling. We sailed over waves, some that reminded me of the final scenes of The Perfect Storm, and rounded the Cape to a huge colony of 600 fur seals. After the fun of jumping waves, our guide cut the motor and we just rocked up and down with the incoming waves against the cliffs and very close to the seals’ sunbathing rocks. Some couldn’t be bothered by us, but the extroverts dipped and dived and rolled over around our boat, with everyone trying to get a timely click of the camera shutter. The waves eventually pushed us into a huge cave where other seals were hiding – I think I would’ve been claustrophobic if I hadn’t been so thrilled to be rocking on the water! We cruised on back to the jetty, again with some fantastic wave-sailing, and as I walked back to the café and my car, I noticed a cottage just up the hillside with a “For Rent” sign out front.

Up the road a bit, to the other side of the “island”, I visited the Blowholes. The purple and black volcanic terrain is formed of basalt and scoria, the latter being more easily eroded by the sea. As the scoria dissolves, tunnels and channels and holes form in the basalt. With the sea swell crashing against the rock, sprays of saltwater shoot into the air and come raining back down onto the rock with a pitter-patter. I wanted to watch for hours, but I was getting hungry for lunch and a bit cold on the windy cliffs.

Before heading back to town, though, I walked further along the cliffs to a “petrified forest”. There actually is no wood there, but the theory is that a grove of Moonah trees were covered by a sand dune, and over time the tree trunks were encrusted by sediment. As the organic interior dissolved, the acids carved the hardened sediment out from the inside and also leaked through the surface. You know those sand castles we used to build on the beach with turrets capped in wet sand that was drizzled over them? That’s what I was reminded of by these formations.

Although waking up at 9am and having a great hot B&B breakfast at 10 is a perfect vacation schedule, finding something decent to eat at 4 or 5pm is not. Portland seemed shut down, just when I was craving some fresh catch, or at least some hot clam chowder. I settled for fish & chips in an ice-cream/candy parlour with floor-to-ceiling shelves of lollipops and bonbons and a view of Portland’s harbor: a toss-up as to which was more coulourful.

Although I thought I couldn’t be impressed anymore after seals and blowholes, boats and bonbons, I’d been recommended one more round-trip drive near Portland to Cape Nelson. There was a red and white lighthouse which I duly photographed, and several hikes to take. Feeling a bit ready to head back to my train lodging, I also thought I should at least take a short walk into the Enchanted Forest. Bent-over Moonah trees created a tunnel and canopy while vines draped themselves over the branches. With no other cars in the parking lot at the trail head and feeling cocooned by the greenery and evening light, I kept walking. I could hear the ocean pounding the cliffs just below but couldn’t get within sight of it. An overgrown track in the direction of the water caught my eye, and I found that it was a steep path down to a huge flat rock (creatively named Flat Rock). I finally did get to sit for over an hour meditating on spouting blowholes and crashing waves on the rocks. The tour book expressed it exactly: “West of the Cape, where the sun sets over the sea, is a realm of liberating isolation: entire beaches free of footprints and a national park where you can walk or paddle a boat for days without seeing a soul.” I, however, saw my soul quite clearly.

Making my way back towards Melbourne on the faster highway via the highlands, I stopped for two hours in Port Fairy, which was a letdown after yesterday in Portland. I didn’t get up early enough to go to church, which I actually was hoping to do since I haven’t gone for a month, but the Anglican Church was hosting the annual Strawberry Fête, so I checked it out. The pastor was pretty hilarious as he quite successfully auctioned off junk as fundraisers. But it was a church fundraiser/luncheon thing just like any other church thing anywhere else in the world. I took an hour’s walk around a nearby island. Snapping pictures of the lighthouse and the green and white beach lined by large black lava boulders, I found myself getting agitated. This was a beautiful island, but not as thrilling of a coastline as Cape Nelson or Bells Beach, and there were so many people! I mean, I must have passed 10 or 15 during the hour!! I am quite the charming dramatist sometimes.

Anyway, the Committee and I were arguing and I was tired of being a prima donna, so I headed inland to see volcano creations. There are many lakes, although many that are now dry, in the round craters left by the volcanoes. Some are huge and others look like a giant raindrop fell into dust. I ate lunch at Cheese World and even got a two-dollar discount since the lady didn’t have change. But I still just felt irritated. I went to checkout a B&B on the shore of Lake Colac, but the lake was so dry that the water was at least ¼ mile out and the whole sight just depressed me. Looking at the map for my options for the next two days as I made my way back to Melbourne, I saw that Lorne, on the GOR between Torquay and Apollo Bay, was only an hour away! My spirits soared the closer I got to the ocean. I was on another empty road, winding up to the crest of the hills, surrounded by eucalyptus trees again! The air was wonderful, and I felt that I was already smelling the coast, though that was impossible at that distance. Maybe I was just making up some psychological scent because the Committee had gone home for the night and I felt at peace. The scent was beautiful and strong and tangible – then I saw jasmine blooming between the eucalyptus. Of course! It’s spring here, which I keep forgetting. So the scent of eucalyptus and jasmine escorted me to the blue-green water. I turned off at the first B&B sign in Lorne and found a beautiful peaceful room looking out to the ocean and a reservation for one at the BaBaLu Club for paella night.

Before I drove back to Melbourne for my flight to Ayers Rock, my brother and I had a video chat and caught up on family gossip from Thanksgiving. Of course the real star (as I’m sure my brother is well aware) is my gorgeous niece Allie, eating her lunch of arroz con Cheerios. I got to see their Christmas tree, and feeling nostalgic as I drove toward Melbourne on the Road of Eucalyptus and Jasmine, I realized that today is the 1^st of December. 19 days to LA...

Party like it's 1999!

2009-01-22T21:14:00.001-08:00

Funny how I got a social life in Singapore. Twelve years ago, Christian and I were out every weekend, going dancing in Hollywood until the wee hours with our mutual friends from Hughes, most notably Herr Fischer. And while I have always had the inclination to be a hermit, and traveling doesn’t often change this trait, Christian had been working too much and hadn’t been out in a while either. So my last week in Singapore was close to a continual party.

First, Christian invited Switchu and me to a dinner with some SES colleagues who were in town. (SES is the Luxembourg company that runs all of Europe’s direct-to-home TV systems and was Hughes’ client, so that’s how Christian and I met.) It was an interesting meal of random Asian things of which I don’t remember the names, except for the chili crab. They went easy on me, so no tongues on fire, but definitely not a dish any normal person would order to make a good impression on colleagues. Needless to say, Christian pretty much needed a new shirt once the crab was all gone. But we were on a roll, so we further impressed these esteemed men by taking them to the prostitution district where the best durian is sold – that’s durian, not durex. Durian is supposed to be a fruit, but is rather a pale ochre form of silly putty or that neon green slime I remember the boys would try to goo us with in 4^th grade. Anyway, it’s a blob under a prickly hard shell that has to be hammered open. And the smell – well, let’s just say there are signs in the subway stations and ferry terminals prohibiting durian from being brought on board: a big picture of the prickly thing with a red slash through it. But Christian insisted that the best durian was to be found in the prostitution district since neither was desired in the upscale neighborhoods. Says something about Christian’s neighborhood, with Happy De Spa and a durian stand across the street. Just to emphasize, I didn’t frequent either of them.

On Tuesday I found a little art shop run by a Canadian woman and went to two classes on art glass – how to make plates and bowls and such. It was a blast and a new interest for me. I was amazed at how simple it is and of course decided that my family would need to buy me a $700 kiln for my birthday. Well, mania does fade and my two fused glass masterpieces are called coasters by most people and are now proudly displayed on Ma’s coffee table.

The one benefit of the extreme humidity of Singapore, beside fewer wrinkles (on both clothes and faces) is the ability for gorgeous plants to grow in abundance. Very early Tuesday morning, about 10:30am, I toured the National Botanic Gardens, walking through the National Orchid Garden, alongside Swan Lake, and into the Ginger Garden, as well as finding random sculptures, lily ponds, bonsai trees, and a secluded walk through the rainforest and ferns. On the wide paths overlooking the gardens and lakes and vast lawn, groups of seniors were doing tai-chi while Caucasian women with ponytails and spandex were gossiping and power-walking. The morning routines of the serene and beautiful.

One rainy afternoon, Christian met me out at Sentosa after he finished work. As I waited for him under the cover of the Merlion in all its glory, I was entertained by a Japanese family taking pictures of their three kids. Christian had told me that for some reason which eludes the most educated of us, the Japanese dramatize their photos with huge fake smiles, action poses (I saw one girl jumping up in the air for her photo in front of Ayer’s Rock in Australia), and the two-fingered “Victory” sign. I thought Christian was exaggerating, as he likes to do, but almost fell off my butt into a puddle when I saw these Japanese kids doing this for the pictures the parents were taking. And they were very serious about it. So when C showed up drenched from his motorcycle sprint, we took some pictures of him in front of a happy colourful fountain – but we were both laughing so hard we could barely get any pictures. We walked across the swinging bridge to the island which is the Southern-most Point of Continental Southeast Asia. Now, this would confuse most people, but not the Singaporians. This means that from the tip of this island connected by a swinging bridge, one could ride his motorcycle all the way up to China. Well, “continental” has many meanings, but it had a good lookout onto the harbor as well as other small potential Southernmost Points of Continental Southeast Asia. Aside from the peculiarities of Singapore and its people and those who work for Christian, we talked about our five lives. Now this isn’t something I invented (don’t know that I ever invented anything, actually), but remembered as one of the exercises in The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. (Just as a sidenote, I’d recommend this book to anyone pursuing some sort of creative endeavour and feels a bit stuck or burnt-out, whether it’s art, music, writing, interviewing, investing, managing, or M&As. I tried to do it twice on my own and finally finished the 12-week “course” with a group of women in DC. I was the only artist – there was a dancer, a jeweler, a poet, a yoga instructor, and a financial advisor who’d been on Oprah. We met every other week for six weeks and shared the results of what we’d read and done per the book. Years later, living in Cannes and preparing to quit engineering to do my art full-time, I found my copy of The Artist’s Way with many of my answers and notes written in the margins. On one page, I stumbled across a desire to “paint in swirls of colour and take a year sabbatical to paint in Europe”. I’d call that an answered prayer!)

So my five lives are to be a truck driver (the 18-wheeler kind), a hip-hop dancer, professional surfer, creative director of a Fortune 500 company, and a university professor of literature. Christian wanted to do extreme sports and be a CEO, and though I actually forgot what else – he kept changing his mind – we both agreed that we didn’t want to do any charity work. Contribute money, yes, but trying to help people, which inevitably requires them to change, is exhausting. He’d done this in Thailand after he’d been caught in the Christmas tsunami several years ago. He had stayed over a year to help Thai fishermen rebuild their boats and villages and also teach some entrepreneurial concepts, but they didn’t take. I’d spent many years volunteering at a battered women’s shelter in Santa Monica. Abusive relationships follow the same cycle as addictions and abusing substances, and in watching many women return with their children to an abusive home thinking it would be different this time, my heart was just broken. I guess helping people is a lot like being an artist or other creative type: you do it whether you want to or not on any given day; you paint or write or sing 9 bad paintings, writings, or ballads to get one good one; you help 9 people who decide not to change to help one who does turn his or her life around.

But Christian and I laugh too much to get serious for long – he’s a good antidote to me. That evening we met up with Wei Ching, a friend from the ex-pat dancing evenings, and her Tunisian roommate Chadha and other Tunisian friends. So we <surprise!> ended up at a Moroccan restaurant where we had to pull the outside tables under the eaves when the rain tried to gobble up our tagine dinners. Around the corner was an Egyptian coffee place, the big attraction being shisha. Shisha is basically a communal smoking thing, but the smoke is filtered in water, and the tobacco is usually flavored something fruity. So our Tunisian experts ordered an apple shisha and began passing around the inhaler. It wasn’t my thing particularly, and Christian and I got into a smoke-ring contest. But with it being a Wednesday night, it was silly to go home too soon just to get up for work in a few hours (me excluded – although I did have my second glass class the next day), so we stuffed into two taxis and headed for Bollywood! Seriously! See the pictures! It was this night club with the feel of a “gentlemen’s club”. Indian girls – some ordinary, a few really beautiful – were dressed like belly dancers and dancing to the latest Bollywood hits. I actually loved the music – definitely something to dance to – but didn’t much like the competition. The guys got up and danced, of course, and watching this whole scene, I found it to be a tiny place of silliness and complete insulation from all the worries of the world.

Now I think I mentioned before that the major pastime and tourist attraction of Singapore is shopping. Orchard Road is the place to be and to be spending. I’d spied a Borders bookstore on one of my taxi rides and was quite excited to go since I was facing several 10+ hour plane trips and was dead out of books. So I got to buy books I actually wanted to read instead of feeling obligated to go through all the compulsive buys already filling my bookshelves at home. In 1898 Tolstoy wrote “What is Art?”, and though I found it, my heart wasn’t there. Amy Tan’s books caught my eye. I’d read the Joy Luck Club something like 8 or 10 years ago and gave it to my Ma with passages underlined of things I wanted to tell her but couldn’t. Nearby was Paul Theroux’s series of travel-writing books like Riding the Iron Rooster and Dark Star Safari, many of which I’ve been wanting for years to read, but I wasn’t in the mood for dark Africa or the Orient Express, so I hooked around the shelves to the adjacent section. I looked for authors with a series of books and found Fitzgerald but couldn’t remember which ones I’d already read other than Gatsby. Further down was a series of novels by a guy named Graham Greene – never heard of him, but his books were set in interesting parts of the world, so I settled on The Heart of the Matter. Next I came across The Kite Runner. I loved both the book and the movie, and while the movie left out the whole immigration issue, the colours of the kites and culture, and later lack thereof, were beautiful. I’ve been wanting to read Khaled Hosseini’s subsequent book 1000 Splendid Suns but thought Ma already had a copy and I was too cheap to buy my own. Nearby was Kazuo Ishiguro’s When We Were Orphans. The title sounded vaguely familiar (amazingly enough, no books in Singapore have Oprah’s seal of approval – I wonder how they know what to read?), and I read on the back that he’d also authored Remains of the Day, which became one of those famous Anthony Hopkins/Emma Thompson romantic-era movies. With the somewhat mystery novel set in both London and Shanghai, I added it to Heart of the Matter. While my left brain was telling me two books would suffice, both to read and to carry, my right brain was in Candyland. Further down the shelves was Barbara Kingsolver. I’ve read most of her novels and loved them, as have my friends Paula and James in France, so I frequently export my read volumes to them. However, as I was in the mood for literature from the far corners of the world, I finally grabbed Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years of Solitude to console me during my upcoming 100 hours of Solitude.

One day Switchu and I were out and popped into an air-conditioned 7-11 for some water to drink. On the way out, I spied the last copy of The Economist with Obama on the cover. I was almost willing to pay the S$12 but then saw it was already 10 days old. So with rare boldness (“balls” I guess you’d call it if I were a guy), I pointed this out to the clerk and asked if I could have it. For free. The Wizard of Oz she consulted in the back room vetoed it but allowed her to give me a free copy of Time magazine, which I thought was kind, but on second glance saw that it was the “Life & Style” edition. Since when do I want to make reservations on the secluded island where Nicole Kidman found nirvana during respites of filming Australia? But I read the dumb thing anyway. Several movers & shakers of the creative type were interviewed about how they travel. The cast included the marketing exec for Louis Vuitton, a 5-star hotel architect, some blond tennis star, and Diane von Furstenberg. The questions included what they pack, what they eat, how they adjust to jet lag, and favorite airports to shop at. The reason I mention all this, however, is that one thing made a huge impression on me. Almost each one said one of their “never-leave-home-without” items is a sketchbook, accompanied by pens or pencils or whatnot. If these gadzillionaires who live on a plane in first class most of their lives and buy haute couture in international airports can’t be without their sketchbooks, well, maybe I should have one, too.

So Thursday, on the way to glass class, I detoured to the Japanese mall at Clarke’s Quay and found a bookstore. Interesting titles, but the best was a huge selection of sketchbooks and coloured pens for cheap. So that made me happy, as I was on my way to being a gadzillionaire living on a plane in first class and buying haute couture in international airports. Alongside dreaming of my future, a vente iced Americano supplemented my happiness. (I’ll plead the 5^th regarding whether there was a green, round logo of a mermaid on the cup.) Additionally, I was amazed to have found Old El Paso in the Japanese market, so I was on my way home to prepare fajitas for Christian. We invited Wei Ching and Chadha and decided to have a fajita picnic in the Botanic Gardens under fragrant plumeria trees, though they all disagreed with me and said they were some sort of tree used to cast spells, but I’m sure they were plumeria. Under the spell of the plumeria and Old El Paso, we righteously decided we needed to go out again – after all, it was Thursday night! We found a bar at Clarke’s that had advertised some sort of free vodka drink to the ladies, but we ended up each paying S$14 – Christian for a beer and us girls for some frou-frou drink with an umbrella. Not sure how “free” translated to S$14 in Singlish, but understandable considering the decibels vomiting from the horrible band belting out one-hit-wonders wearing too little silver lamé and fishnet (stockings, shirts, whatever…) It was one of those bars with big sofas and semi-private nooks and velvet that might be considered trendy – except that there were only about 12 people in the place. We grabbed a little table surrounded by a funky sofa and plush chairs and ended up laughing so hard that we were lucky to be seated on sofas since we were all falling-down hysterical. I’m trying to remember what was so funny, other than the gyrations of the band members, but I think Chadha started it. She would give us an emotion or situation, and we would have to express it, wordlessly, but with the ever-present Japanese photo “victory” sign… It’s hysterical just remembering it…

Friday, Christian and Wei Ching took me out for dinner at a happy ritzy place on the water of the harbor. It was even more happy after two glasses of champagne. We then hopped to a bar that overlooked the Shopping on Orchard Road. There were cabaña-type lounge beds along one side of the bar, so us girls ditched the guys, claimed one of the cabañas, and ordered margaritas. Christian joined us, then a Panamanian friend Carlos. I’ve never laughed so hard or this much since the last time I saw Christian, about 7 years ago. (Well, OK, maybe since last night, but you understand.) I laughed so hard I had to lie down on the sofa, yet again. After all my eye makeup was gone and my lipstick left on a few margarita glasses, a huge group of us ex-pats went back for more to Insomnia for another dance party until 4am. After all, I had to get to bed early to prepare for my 10-hour flight to Auckland the next day.

Another Hard Day...

2009-01-01T19:07:00.001-08:00

Recovering from Insomnia and after our 1pm breakfast on Sunday, Christian suggested a mellow day on a local island, Pulau Ubin. After lunch (I actually didn’t have breakfast, now that I think about it), we rented bikes and took them down to the beach facing Malaysia. A giant wooden fence had been erected in the water 30 meters off shore to keep Malaysians from illegally entering Singapore. But we spread out towels and read our books for a couple hours under a cloudy and humid sky. Since Pulau Ubin isn’t developed I could see the original jungle and forest and beaches (well, plus a touch of Malaysian litter that’s washed up). Singapore has also “developed” other local islands, Christian told me. They import rocks & sand from Malaysia, extend the coastline, and plant mangrove trees for their extensive root system to keep the new land from washing away. Meanwhile, Malaysia’s coastline is receding…

Saturday evening was mellow, but hey, it’s still Saturday night in Singapore. So Christian, his roommate Switchu, and I went to Sentosa Island for dinner. Sentosa is Disneyland². A light show was in progress – Christian told us to avoid it – something about a happy spirit that gets happier when people sing. There’s a giant, uh, sculpture thing called the Merlion – a lion with a mermaid’s body. I’d call it the Sing-Sphinx. It’s just about as big as Egypt’s and gets lit up at night as a beacon – a beacon to happiness. After Japanese sushi, we sat at the edge of the water in semi-darkness looking out at the lights of all the freighter ships and talked about our experiences with ghosts and spirits, angels and demons.

Sunday we were off to the island of Batam in Indonesia. A very hot day, and the sun fried my head on the boat ride, but I’ve never seen so many huge ships at once! Singapore is the largest port in the world. We arrived at Batam and thought it would be simple to find a beach resort to hang out at, but the tourist offices in the terminal were harder to find than chewing gum. After paying the cab, we were told that we couldn’t use the resort unless we were guests of the hotel. Couldn’t even pay $10 for the towels. So Christian used the “How can you help me?” line, and we were in. The place was deserted. Looked gorgeous, though, with cabanas and a pristine pool and palm trees and jet skis to rent on the turquoise water. Christian bought us coconuts with straws and lunch, then Switchu bought us cappuccinos and snacks. I was just there for the conversation while we all read our books. Another hard day.

Disneyland

2009-01-01T18:04:00.001-08:00

Hey Laurie, you just survived a 12 hour flight, now what are you going to do?

I’m going to Disneyland!

I arrived 3 ½ hours into Tel Aviv airport before my flight, went through endless and stressful security checks (basically a repeat of 10 days ago), then onto my 4 ½ hour flight to Paris which was late. Air France kindly held the plane to Singapore for the few of us on that flight, but we had to run through the terminal to the very last gate. As soon as I got to my seat I felt claustrophobic, and after dinner my legs felt funny, like I needed to constantly move them, then I got nauseated. I felt something like vertigo. One of the stewardesses had medical training and thought it might be poor circulation. I think I was just exhausted from the Israel trip and the stress of getting out of Tel Aviv and onto the Singapore flight. Anyway, they took good care of me and finally brought me up to first class to lay in the seat that flattens to a nice bed. I think I slept a good 7 or 8 hours, though the 1^st class attendant subtly told me to go back to my seat as soon as I was able. No warm breakfast rolls for me. Disembarking, I got the wheelchair treatment, and was embarrassed that they’d sent for it, but was still dizzy. The wheelchair guy was quite entertaining, asking me if I wanted to shop at the giant duty-free store (Singapore’s only tourist attraction seems to be shopping), showing me a picture of his bonsai tree (clipping it takes lots of time but helps him not listen to his girlfriend), and telling me that I need to see the new airport terminal that has a cinema with no entrance fee, so you can watch full-screen movies while waiting for a flight!

My friend Christian greeted me with his big smile and got his workout by carrying my suitcases. Since I’d had a good night’s sleep on the plane, we went out for drinks (why not?) at an outdoor mall, Clarke Quay, on the Singapore River where the old town center used to be. He said it had been “spruced up” a bit from former warehouses, and it definitely had been. It looked like Disneyland, each building a different pastel colour with white trim – the icing on the cake being a Hooters. But Singapore really is one big Disneyland. The place is so clean. Chewing gum is illegal, unless it is by prescription (so we figured either a nicotine gum or jaw fitness gum would be available). There are fines for everything – even riding your bike in a street underpass would cost $1000. Being naked, apparently even in your own home (maybe someone else can see you!) is illegal. So is oral sex, but prostitution is OK. The Chinese women who immigrate here often write on their papers that they will be prostitutes. Christian said the oral sex law had been recently reviewed, and while they finally allowed it as foreplay, it is still illegal, even for married couples. The thinking (if you can call it that) behind this is that Singapore is trying to increase the birth rate, so they encourage sex of the procreating kind. But ads of women in bikinis are censored. The men here seem to have either all or nothing.

Another peculiarity which explains all the prettiness of the place is that Singapore wants to be a utopia – they really want everyone to be happy. (I got some photos of advertisements around town – they even use the word “happy” nauseatingly.) There’s a Ministry of Community which is basically in charge of keeping people happy and thinking up new ways to make them even happier. So residents, tourists, and business people are kept pretty well entertained. From what I’ve read in the tour guide, I’ll be experiencing lots of kitsch in hopes of making me happy. Stay tuned…

After vegging out at Christian’s for a couple days, I grabbed a taxi (they’re so cheap here – and air-conditioned) to go back to Clarke Quay. Arriving just before noon, I was the only person there except for the guys installing the Christmas lights. A next-door mall had a Starbucks (I resisted) and a few open stores. I bought a t-shirt for my niece – a “happy” t-shirt, of course. It had been raining all morning, but I conveniently forgot my umbrella, so I sat down for lunch in a coffee house on the water, listening to and watching the pouring rain. Had a chicken sandwich with a coffee sauce on it – very interesting – good, too. Unfortunately Singapore hasn’t yet covered every sidewalk to make me happy when I forget my umbrella. So keeping close to cover, I found a group of art galleries on the ground floor of an office building. Only one really held much interest for me. I asked about their artists, but they’re all Asian and only those who have lived in Singapore.

I thought I’d waste a bit more time under the cover of Clarke Quay (where the scent of jasmine is everywhere from the jasmine trees – that made me happy). As I mentioned, shopping is really the only tourist attraction, and Singapore just doesn’t get that people can also go shopping in Paris and London and the Camarillo Outlet Stores, so that’s not the best strategy. But that’s someone else’s problem. I’m about shopped-out because even with sending home a box of winter clothes already, my new suitcase from the Cairo bazaar plus the old one are already both at 20kg again! So aside from a prostitute, the only other thing to really waste your money on in Singapore is at a spa. Now, of course, this is a bit tricky here. Across the street from Christian’s place is Happy De Spa (is that French?). But a friend of his went and was charged an extra $5 for being female, and Christian was asked never to patronize the place again since he didn’t want any extra services. So I hadn’t planned to go somewhere that Christian or his friends didn’t tell me was safe, but a very nice spa above one of the ritzy restaurants in Clarke Quay caught my eye. I cautiously climbed the quiet stairs, lined with huge bouquets saying “Congratulations on Grand Opening”, and although they looked like funeral flowers, figured the place was OK.

Inside, Spring Spa was gorgeous, with a lobby and lounge and upscale healthy little café, all in red and purple colours (to match the flowers and make everyone happy, I guess). I was warmly greeted and signed in, the second person of the day. So I got ear candling (the second time in my life – really cool! -- worth a try for anyone!) and a massage and foot reflexology. The ear candling lady also did facials and manicure/pedicure. I needed my nails done, but figured I’d be in the place long enough that today wasn’t the time. I still wanted to do a bit of sightseeing – whatever that was. The massage was great! Not only Swedish massage but lots of work on my upper back – my worst spot – with some chiropractic stuff, too. She complimented me on my boobs.

After a hot shower, a tall blonde Chinese guy worked on my feet. I couldn’t feel them for hours afterwards! It was great! They were still needling me to get a facial (I hate facials) and my nails done, but I was ready to leave (well, not really – jet lag still seems to hit me about mid-afternoon, so I could have just slept there a while). Signing out, there were quite a few more names on the sheet – all of them men.

The rain wasn’t bad now, so I went hunting for the Asian Cultures Museum. Although Christian told me where it was, I trusted the 5-year-old guide book his friend gave me. So the AC Museum is now some other museum, and by the time I got around to asking and headed back to the new location at Clarke Quay (duh!), I was getting tired. I ordered a new pair of eyeglasses (because Dad told me to) in the “tech” mall. A bit more walking around, noticing all the happy people, and then I headed for a happy cup of coffee from a third-floor mall lookout over the river.

I spent another day at Christian’s working on my blog as well as trying to figure out what to see in Singapore (not 2-week’s worth, certainly). I figured I could take a short flight over to Bali, but my friend Dan hit me over the head and told me I was being stupid again (St. P being the first time – well, maybe not the first) and needed to spend at least a month in Bali. Christian said Vietnam (Hanoi, specifically) and Cambodia were quite different and would be great to go, but I need a visa for Vietnam and there were no convenient trips to Cambodia. We thought we’d go to Sumatra (well, at least get a good cuppa joe), but Chrisitan had a meeting on Monday that wouldn’t work with the flights available. I was tired of struggling with flights and an intermittent internet connection, with a server error in pure Sing-lish:

The server may be a little bit broken temporarily. Please try again in a few moments while it sorts itself out. Error 12152

It was Friday night and time to go out. In the guidebook, albeit 5 years old, under the heading for nightlife, it read “Singapore. The whole city. Really.” We went to an expat get-together at an open-air bar on a high floor of an office building. Very chic. Giant pictures of Mao, Kim, and Bush filled the wall behind the bar. Then dancing among the prostitutes at Insomnia until 4am. Of course being the clueless person I am, I didn’t know most of the women were prostitutes (hey, most women from London to LA wear short shorts and lace bustiers to go dancing – not dressed but going out). I guess the guys know quite quickly that the motivation is not love but money. That’s a bad segway to another philosophical discussion, but one which I don’t have the energy nor knowledge to write about, especially at 4am.

Walk Like an Egyptian

2009-01-01T15:44:00.001-08:00

OK, not the most creative title, but accurate. First thing after our morning flight from Tel Aviv to Cairo was the Egyptian Museum – home of King Tut and other old things. We had a great museum guide and learned some fascinating things like how to identify if a statue is of a pharaoh or not (in case you find one in your backyard). The beard and forward left leg means he’s dead (hopefully they all have beards), and a clenched left hand or one holding a sepulchre is a sign of a ruler. The left leg first is interesting. When a pharaoh or other rich or important person (not necessarily the same thing) died, they were mummified. This basically preserved their bodies so their spirits could come back to them, and their coffins were carved to render their faces and hands – again for identification, though I’m not sure why their spirits would need them. But back to mummification. The brains were basically ripped into mush via the nasal cavities and then all drained out through those passageways (gives new meaning to a nose bleed). Then the left side of the body was opened at the bottom of the ribcage to remove the organs. Four jars or pots were used to preserve these organs: one for the liver, one for kidneys, then stomach and intestines and finally the heart, if I remember all this correctly. I’m sure the genitals went in one of those jars, too, though the guide didn’t mention it. So along with the statue and mummy you’ll find in your backyard, don’t overlook those four jugs of organs. Then the body is encased with salt for about 2 months. Oh, but back to my original thread: the left side is sacred because that is the side of understanding. This is the spiritual side; the heart. The right side is for knowledge, and knowledge, along with the organ responsible for learning and retaining knowledge, the brain, is not needed in the afterlife. Knowledge is a hindrance. Knowledge is only needed for the physical realm, to which the Egyptians didn’t give much emphasis. This physical world was only useful in preparing for the next world. I’m fascinated by the juxtaposition of our world with theirs and that they already had some idea of left- vs. right-brained functions.

King Tut’s room held his two coffins, both of gold and copper (which oxidized into blue), with all kinds of jewelry and details in red and yellow gold and every other precious thing. His eyes (on the coffin) are made of ivory with crystals drilled in for the retina, then copper “eyeliner” applied around the eyes. When a flashlight is shined on them, an incredibly real pair of eyes stares back at you – lifelike enough to have scared many pyramid explorers and thieves! King Tut’s fingers were enclosed in gold, like long thimbles, and arms and legs adorned with more jewelry. His mummified body was placed in one coffin, which was placed in another, then another, which was nestled into a wooden ark-like box, which was then placed into 3 subsequently larger boxes, the final one about 6x8x10 feet in dimension. What is really amazing about King Tut’s tomb is the incredible amount of gold and precious stones and metals, plus the craftsmanship, for a king who ascended the throne at 9 years old, died at 19 of unknown causes – murder has been ruled out, and did absolutely nothing for Egypt. So if all this was done for insignificant King Tut, imagine what the tombs of some of the great kings and pharaohs and those who lived long lives and amassed much wealth would have looked like!

As we landed in Cairo, the city of 20 million people stretched out for miles, like approaching LA, but the difference in Cairo is that the urban expanse was almost completely made up of drab-looking high rise apartments. They don’t often finish most houses and apartment buildings because the taxes are lower if a building is still in the construction phase. Other interesting dwellings could be found in the “City of the Living” – really the City of the Dead: the Muslim cemetery. The bodies are buried in the ground with one or two rooms above in the mausoleum, I suppose we would call it. Actually, there are two rooms under the ground, one for men’s bodies and the other for women – so they are even segregated at death. But squatters have come in and lived in the “upstairs” rooms, with water and electricity and TV piped in. The owners of the mausoleums don’t really take any action to kick out the squatters because they feel it’s a form of charity.

Anyway, we got a bit of a taste of Egypt driving in Cairo. We were definitely back in an Arab country, and many of our group on the bus were getting ulcers over the driving. Pedestrians wandered into and across the road, there are no lines painted on the streets, and a generally laws of physics are not in effect, much like Casablanca. I thought it was mild compared to Casa, with hardly any scooters or motorcycles and honking only used if you and your mother ****. Aside from the Egyptian Museum (a bit rundown I thought, but they’re building a new one), we had good views of the Nile and sailboats out on it, as well as the Opera House. In 1869, the Suez Canal opened and was celebrated by the first performance of Aida, Egypt’s most-loved operas, and one of my favorites, too. I mean, it’s VERDI! How can you not love Verdi? But anyway, Aida was performed at the newly opened Opera House to celebrate the Suez Canal.

In the evening, they had a Nile River Cruise booked for us. The food wasn’t great and it was on one of those huge boats that didn’t even feel like it was moving except that buildings outside were floating by. Sufi & belly dancers entertained us. I was fascinated by this Sufi dancer spinning around and around for about 15 minutes, apparently in a trace to keep him from losing his lunch. He wore 2 skirts over his baggy pants, plus several scarves wrapped around his head. He also had 6 discs, something like tambourines, that fit inside one another, though at the same time all looking the same size – anyway, hard to describe this whole thing that I’d never seen before, but it was amazing. There are a few pictures, though difficult to get good ones, even with Julie’s camera. Sufi dancers begin training when they’re barely 4 or 5 years old, and it is a form of meditation for them: a trance. It fascinated me with the bright colours and the flow of all the fabric – it looked like one of my paintings was spinning around in front of me. People often ask me what inspires my art, and I think the only firm thing I can point to is fluid movement, whether of water or, even better, bright coloured fabrics laid out together or moving. So I was both inspired and mesmerized by this guy. Then the belly dancer performed, and I have to admit I was a bit embarrassed by it. It wasn’t anything obscene and I know I’m sounding like a prude, but I just felt uncomfortable. Most of the other guests on the cruise appeared to be Arab or Asian businessmen. Aside from the general gawking, several began filming her via their mobiles. Anyway, I was back in an Arab culture, and that never agrees with me. After Morocco, I have almost no tolerance for their leering and aggressiveness.

Bright and early the next morning, before waves of heat and tourists arrived, we drove out to the Giza Pyramids. The entire Nile delta would flood for 4 months out of the year, and while the farmers adjusted the type of crops and growing cycles to take advantage of this, it wasn’t agreeable to dead pharaohs. The pyramids are built on land which is up a huge cliff overlooking Cairo. Now, the pharaohs didn’t just one day decide to build these things. Their ambition was built on centuries of tradition, beginning with marking the graves of royalty and nobility with a stone in order to acknowledge the place they were buried. But then the rulers and the rich wanted to take more of their wealth with them into the afterlife (He who dies with the most toys gets to keep them.), so the graves expanded with underground rooms to accommodate their favorite possessions. (I wonder when we’ll see 10x40m plots to accommodate yachts and Ferraris and Ferragamos?) However, contrary to popular belief, the rulers and rich are human, so they got greedy and wanted to take more and more stuff with them when they died, which were accommodated by placing them under a pile of stones. But a pile of stones isn’t necessarily pretty or ordered, so they began to pile the stones as steps so the royal (but not the rich, since only royals were the reps of the gods) could step up to be with the gods. Not only were they greedy, and self-exalting, but also competitive, so the pile of stones got bigger and bigger, until one of them reached 280 feet high. And this is how the Giza Pyramids were born.

Now, it’s interesting that the Egyptians actually paid their labour to build these things. During the 4 months of Nile flooding, even farmers gravitated to the construction industry. The pyramids had to be built quickly, since the average ruling period for a pharaoh was 20 years. So as soon as he was inaugurated, not only was the pyramid constructed, but also his tombs – remember, at least 7 for those that were found with King Tut. The largest pyramid has 2.3 million blocks, again, no mortar was used. Some blocks were from local quarries, but others traveled down the Nile from 600 miles away. That’s like LA to Eureka! And if someone cares to do the math, 2.3 million divided by 20 years is 4.5 minutes per block! They had some amazing operations, for sure. Maybe they had CMI (Continuous Measurable Improvement).

It is something of an insult, too, that no one in our common era has been able to construct a pyramid more than 10 feet high. Now, that sounds silly, but considering that no mortar was used (it was just a pile of rocks, remember?) and that there is no pressure of the weight of the rocks on the hollow burial tombs, it gets more challenging. The interior rooms have stones slanted that take all the pressure. Plus, there is a spirit tunnel, usually hidden, for the spirit to come and go freely. Of course, its home could always be located by the numerous tombs with the exact likeness of the pharaoh’s face and hands engraved on them.

Ra is the sun god. He travels across the sky everyday (unless you live in London), and the Egyptians had numerous explanations for this phenomenon. One was that a woman’s body was arched over the land. Her head was east, where the light began. In the west was her uterus, and the sun would drop out of her down into darkness. The other explanation was the solar boat. The sky is blue because it’s actually a river, and Ra sails across the sky in his solar boat. Well, if Ra needs a boat, the pharaoh does even more so. Next to the pyramids, a boat was buried. Well actually, over 1000 pieces for a boat requiring assembly were buried, and the Egyptians figured the spirit would take care of the assembly. Remember that next time you’re in IKEA.

Since we hadn’t taken enough pictures yet, including camels (dromedaries actually, since “camel” is really the name for a 2-humped camel, well, dromedary, which can only be found in the zoo – camels, I mean, not dromedaries), we headed over to the Sphinx. The Sphinx isn’t a camel or a dromedary, thank goodness, but a lion with a human head. (I know you knew that already.) Since a lion has never been seen to have a human face, this combination was intended to strike fear in all who looked at it, and thereby guard the pyramids. With the west considered the place of death (the sun died each day in the west), the Giza pyramids were built on the west bank of the Nile, and the Sphinx faces east to guard against the living.

By the end of the day I felt in need of my own sphinx. Our guide had started the morning off with 5, but was now bidding 16 camels for me (not sure what Dad would do with 16 camels, though I’m sure the HOA would have some concerns), and the security guard personally escorting me and chatting me up. We had armed guards on both busses as well as a police escort – 4 guys in one car – the entire time we were in Egypt, including the 6 hour trek across the Sinai desert. But none really met my definition of a personal sphinx. I finally decided that the black “tents” and veil worn by women to only show their eyes – that outfit is going in my suitcase for my next visit to the Arab world. Actually, I’m not blonde or pretty enough to warrant all this attention, but I’ve come to the conclusion it’s just the colour of my skin. In Cairo along the expressway, there were a series of “B-white” advertisements which looked like some sort of skin lightener. Wonder if they asked Michael Jackson to be their celebrity promoter?

Most of the Nile borders cater to recreation – from parks and boardwalks to sailing, which is the most popular pastime. However, in a few undeveloped areas we could see the typical reeds along the Nile – remembering how Moses was found. His name probably derived from Mu-Meses which means “water infant”.

We visited the only synagogue in Cairo. It had never been used because there weren’t 10 Jewish men in all of Old Cairo to keep the lights going. However, one of our group was formerly Jewish, and while most of us marveled at being in a synagogue for the first time, Mark told us it was not at all like a real synagogue. Most blatantly, the Torah was left opened on a book stand, and opening the Torah is only done with much respect. It would have never been left open by a Jew.

Later, the Coptic Museum (Coptic means Egyptian) showed us all kinds of ancient Egyptian art in stone, wood, paints, papyrus, leather, embroidery, and fabric. On display is the oldest known book of the Psalms – dated to 1288! – plus a red-leather-bound book of the four gospels written on linen paper – definitely a work of art. Afterwards, some of us went to the Cairo bazaar. I really didn’t want to go, but was in need of a new, not to mention cheap, suitcase to replace the bag that didn’t make it through Israeli inspection very well. So I stuck with our little group who ventured into the maze – a gauntlet of vendors trying to get our attention: “I’m honest! How much will you pay me?!” But I claimed victory emerging with a large red $25 suitcase.

Before leaving Egypt, we drove about 6 hours through the Sinai desert to the Red Sea and the Israeli border. We “crossed” the Suez Canal via a tunnel of 2km under the canal and the militarized zone around it. After emerging, we looked back to see a very long ship in the canal, but could only see the top part – a ship in floating in the desert.

With such a long bus ride, our guide was very entertaining, explaining compulsory military service (which he avoided due to bananas – you mean “Go Bananas”? – “yes, that’s it!”) as well as the decreasing numbers of arranged marriages (most young people just date non-exclusively – like himself). But someone asked him about Islam, and though he replied that questions about religion are very rude, gave us quite a detailed response. A Muslim must do 5 things. First, believe that Allah is the only God and Mohammed is the last prophet after Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Isaiah, and Jesus. Second, pray 5 times a day at sunrise, about noon, 4pm, sunset, and 8pm. They have to wash first, but it isn’t necessary to pray at work or on duty, nor do pregnant and menstruating women have to pray. Third, fast in Ramadan, lasting a month, from sunrise to sunset – meaning no food or even water, as well as cigarettes – although kids and those with medical exemptions don’t have to fast. When the fast is broken each evening after sundown, huge feasts are held, open to neighbors and the poor. This is expected in order to be compassionate for the poor – in order to understand how they feel. Fourth, Muslims must make one pilgrimage in their lifetime to Mecca – but only if they can afford it, which is about $10-15k. Our guide told us that the money Saudi Arabia makes from the pilgrims to Mecca is greater income than from oil! Finally, 5% of savings must be given to charity (note that’s savings, not income).

He explained that Suni and Shiite are two different sects, of Islam. While the Suni are very simple and tolerant, the Shiite believe in self-flogging, cutting, and injuring, and the Suni consider this paganism. Shiites, per their history, are very stubborn and believe that the Angel Gabriel was supposed to give his message to Ali but mistakenly gave it to Mohammed.

When we asked about the Islamic after-life beliefs, our guide became agitated. If you ask any Egyptian about getting the 70 virgins for sacrificing in battle, they will look as if you had two heads. Most of the suicide bombers come from very impoverished circumstances, and this is exploited by their governments -- not in Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, or in any of the more developed nations, but in Palestine and Afghanistan. The politicians and those wanting control brainwash children from a young age, including the invented story of 70 virgins in heaven, and incentivize the family with promises of $30,000 (probably equivalent to something like $2M to Americans) for their son or daughter to be patriotic.

Luckily, since Julie had to switch buses everyday since she was a coordinator, I got to switch busses as well, and even with his lectures at each stop as to why I should be on his bus, I was able to escape the guide with 16 camels. Of course, before crossing the Egyptian border to Israel, he told me to pay the exit tax – two kisses on the cheek. These 3 days in Egypt wore me out just as Morocco did – aside from the aggression in the bazaar, the feeling that I was just another pretty but useless piece of junk for sale. I was exhausted.

I’ve never walked across a border before, and it took two hours to go through the 2 exit checkpoints from Egypt and the 3 checks (passport, security, and customs) in Israel. Luckily they didn’t interrogate me this time, probably because I was with the group. But I came to appreciate crossing borders by plane – at least it’s air conditioned!

So the last night of our tour was in a resort hotel in Eliat, at the northern most point of the Red Sea. The hotel was wonderful, but I’d hit a wall after the border crossing and didn’t even leave the room for the two hours before dinner. Afterwards, Julie and I caught the high-school play that was Obama’s first official press conference, and then fell asleep. Although it would be nice to say I swam in the Red Sea, I was starting to get a sore throat and opted to get breakfast at 10 followed by a massage. We drove 4 hours back to Tel Aviv, via the Desert of Zin (or Sin) where Moses and the Israelites wandered for 40 years. When I hear or read the story, I picture a flat, solid-footed desert – like the Mojave, I suppose. But Zin is a labyrinth of gullies straddled by 20-foot cliffs – not compatible with accurate navigation or easy traveling.

That evening I left the group after our farewell dinner in Tel Aviv, as they had a midnight flight back to LA. To commemorate my last day in Israel, I spent the next morning of 9-Nov swimming in the Med, reading the newspaper, and walking along the boardwalk. That evening, once my plane had taken off, I felt a huge relief to be leaving Israel. As much as I enjoyed it and obviously learned from it, the constant proximity of war, seen in the battle-scarred land, barbed fences, and high airport security (I’d had all my luggage, both checked and carry-on, searched down to opening each jar of cream) had taken its toll on me. Frankly, I was emotionally depleted.

JERUSALEM!

2008-12-28T19:32:00.001-08:00

3 & 4 November: JERUSALEM!

24 hours before the Obama/McCain election, we toured King David’s city, just outside the current walls of Jerusalem, then walked down to the Pool of Siloam. It was here that Jesus cured the blind man by spitting on the ground to make mud, putting the mud on his eyes, then telling him to go wash in the pool. (John 9) As Pastor Jack explained it, Jesus’ direction was rather degrading to the man. Jesus not only put spit on his eyes, but then told him he wasn’t clean. However, the man had faith, proven in that he obeyed what Christ told him to do, without question or hesitation, and was healed because of it. Julie got a good picture of me in one of the concrete baths, as well as on the steps that would have led into the pool. Sitting on the Siloam steps, I was reminded that Christ does heal, even me, if I have faith in Him. I don’t. Maybe for a few seconds, but really, I don’t. I don’t need some dramatic healing like from illness or injury, but I do need it from the stuff that’s easier to hide – the crap I do time after time and don’t want to do anymore. But I can’t stop on my own strength – well, not really. I have moments of victory, but in reality, nothing long-term. I can’t persevere on my own strength. And maybe these things will be with me my entire life and are meant to keep me close to God. As most Christians are very familiar with Paul’s “thorn in his side” (2 Corinthians 12:7-10), we often look at our injuries or diseases or addictions or bad relationships or “issues” in this manner – things that aren’t meant to be healed in this life. We’re afflicted to help us grow, get character, or increase faith. But I think I use this idea as an excuse. It’s a crutch, a cop-out, being chicken, an excuse to not even put the burden of faith on myself. So all this ran through my mind on the steps of Siloam (which means “Sent”). And it stayed in my mind, like the picture Julie took of me there. I can’t say it has changed my behavior or faith or crap I do, but I at least have enough faith to believe that Jesus heals other people. Maybe one day before I die I’ll get enough faith for myself.

The air-conditioned Purple Eggs drove us over to the top of the Mount of Olives – I guess our trip was more gossip than sweat, after all. Alot happened here: King David took refuge, weeping, as his son entered Jerusalem to overthrow him; Zechariah prophesied that the Lord would come, His feet standing on the Mount of Olives, overlooking Jerusalem; Jesus spent nights praying on the mountain, sometimes with His disciples, sometimes alone; Jesus told His disciples about the end times here, warned of many false prophets who would perform signs and miracles and convince many of His followers, and many people’s hearts would forget love and grow cold due to increased wickedness in the world; and finally Jesus walked into Jerusalem for the last time from the Mount of Olives, with all the people cheering Him on and acknowledging that He was God, then killed Him five days later. We walked down from the Mount of Olives via the “Palm Sunday” path, greeted by vendors shouting “You America! Obama good! 3 for $10!”, finally taking refuge in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus had prayed in agony that He not be killed while His disciples fell asleep. He prayed for escape, but always ending with “Thy will be done, not Mine” – just as Judas led the Roman soldiers into the garden to arrest Him on charges of blasphemy. Several of the olive trees in Gethsemane were witnesses 2000 years ago, but are now marked with “do not touch” signs. Leaves from these trees, or even an olive, are likely a great souvenir.

In the afternoon, Nir and Itay guided us through the museum at the entry of the Temple so we could understand what it looked like when Jesus was there, then walked to the southwest corner of the Temple. While we were told that Jesus walked on these stones, on the street where vendors would be wheeling & dealing, I couldn’t really take it in. The massiveness of the stones, the bricks – something like 8x50 feet and probably 5 (or was it 50?) tons – now that impressed me.

We came to the Temple Steps, which are now steps to nowhere since the Muslims have walled it off to build their mosque. During Jesus’ time, the Jewish elders would sit at the city gates or on the Temple steps to discuss laws and judge citizens – kind of like my Dad and his buddies at Starbucks. Pastor Daniel reminded us that Jesus would have sat on these very steps teaching His disciples and even the elders. Suddenly, I asked myself the question if I would have been among Jesus’ disciples if I were at the temple and listening to him preach and even witnessing the miracles first-hand. If I were a Jew in the time of Jesus, would I have believed He was the Son of God – if He was who he claimed he was? I’m not sure I would have. The Jews are God’s chosen people, with centuries of history to substantiate that. Suddenly they are told that they are equal with anyone else who claims to believe that this peasant who refutes their laws and traditions is the King, the Messiah, God’s Son. I figure that if I were a Jew and met Jesus, it would take as much conviction to follow Him as it would for me to convert to Islam now: going against my family and cultural heritage as well as being willing to lower my social and religious status, considering that I’m a woman.

Tuesday morning, election day back home, paper and pens were passed around the bus. Julie asked if I wanted some. For what? A prayer – for the Wailing Wall. Oh. No, I wouldn’t know what to pray for. What one single thing would I pray for? I still can’t answer that, and so I didn’t leave anything for God in the wall. But seeing all those kneeling in front of the western wall that once held up the Temple, men on one side, women on the other, I couldn’t help but think that all these earnest prayers really were “incense” to God. Jewish or Christian, God had to be listening with compassion and appreciation and love.

When the Romans got sick of the Jews not worshipping Caesar, around 70 AD, they destroyed the Temple. The building and huge blocks (like those seen at the southwest wall) were pushed from the Temple plaza, called the Temple Mount, onto the streets below. As Jesus had predicted on the Mount of Olives that Jerusalem would be destroyed (Matthew 24:1-3), it was done. Over the years, dirt filled and covered the mounds of stones against the wall of the Temple Mount on the west side.

Now, I have to digress briefly and say that the Temple Mount is now owned by Muslims, is topped with a mosque, and is prohibited from any non-Muslim to enter. How the Muslims came to worship on the Jewish Temple Mount where Jesus taught is probably some work of the devil that gives him the giggles. But in 638 AD, the Muslims declared the Temple Mount a holy sight since Mohammed was transported to it from Mecca one night, accompanied by the angel Gabriel, then ascended a ladder of light that took him through the seven heavens to finally meet Allah. Returning back to the Temple Mount, Mohammed prayed and acknowledged the site of the assemblies of those who followed the prophets Abraham, Moses, Isaiah, and Jesus. Gabriel then transported Mohammed back to Mecca before dawn.

Jews and Christians and interested archaeologists are allowed access under the pile of rubble up to the walls of the Temple Mount. So we walked along the west wall in tunnels, admiring not only the size of the blocks, but how well they fit together. No mortar was ever used. At one point in the tunnel, a group of women, about 8, were seated in plastic patio chairs facing the wall. No one of our group spoke (well, we weren’t speaking too much anyway), and I finally realized that the women were praying. This is the place that is the closest to where the Holy of Holies is believed to have been before the Temple’s destruction. The Holy of Holies in a Jewish temple is where God is. Once a year, on Yom Kippur, a priest enters to make atonement for all the Jews. Any other entry at anytime during the year, or by anyone other than the anointed priest, would die. The first Holy of Holies was built in the mobile tent of Moses and is where the Ark of the Covenant with the 10 Commandments tablets were placed. So the location of the Holy of Holies is extremely important to the Jews. Our group passed single-file around the cluster of chairs facing the wall. I stopped just beyond and touched the wall and don’t know why but tears came. I’ve never thought of God being in a concrete place that I could touch. Some cathedrals in Europe make the same impression on me, but this felt different. Maybe because God told the Jews that He would like them to build Him a temple (told to King David, and his son Solomon actually had it built, although that was the First Temple and this had been the Second). Maybe because Jesus had been there. No cathedral was requested by God or Jesus, nor has Jesus visited any of them in the flesh. And maybe I’m thinking too much – I know I was feeling too much – and it was nothing more than being moved by the devotion of the women facing the wall and praying.

Exiting into the sunlight north of the Temple Mount, we walked to the Pool of Bethesda. Most know this story: a crippled man sat by the side of the pool, known for its healing powers when “the angel stirred the waters”. This “stirring” was probably due to the spring at the bottom of the pool that occasionally rippled to the surface. This crippled man, however, could never be fast enough to get to the water while the angel was still there. But Jesus healed him. Stand, pick up your mat, and walk. Believe, get some courage, and live. (my translation)

Adjacent to the Pool of Bethesda is St. Anne’s Church; inside is a white, unadorned interior with perfect acoustics. As we walked in, and Asian group was singing “Amazing Grace” in their own language. Only the melody was familiar to me. We sat down, all touched. As they left, our group assembled at the front, but by this time my tears were ridiculously embarrassing, so I hid behind one of the pillars in the back. I think heaven is like this – multiplied.

Walking back to the Purple Eggs, Julie bought me pomegranate juice – I’d wanted some since I saw a Muslim selling it from a street stand in Nazareth. The taste was lovely, like cranberry, but better of course, as everything exotic and scarce tends to be.

Just as a sidenote, I realize that saying “the Bible says so” might sound cheesy. After all, I am an engineer and have my moments of being quite logical. A friend of mine once informed me that being an engineer is incompatible with being a Christian. But it was actually this logic that finally increased my faith enough to be a real Christian, as opposed to someone who grew up going to church and celebrating Christmas. The Old Testament of the Bible has been proven true both by secular history as well as archaeology (many archaeologists think the Bible is the best reference for field research and digs). In the Old Testament are over 300 prophecies of Christ which were all fulfilled by Jesus. Now there can be all kinds of skepticism over some of the wording and so forth, but for 300, including the place of His birth and hometown? And the four gospels of the New Testament all were written by eye witnesses to Jesus and all basically corroborate each other and all are written in a historical, documentary style (as opposed to other accounts, like the Gospel of Thomas that reads like a myth) and were all written within 30 or so years after the events took place. These accounts were written so close to the time that the actual events occurred and so many accurate copies were found (on the order of tens of thousands), that we would have to erase all the history books of anything that happened before the time of Christ (or Before Common Era, as is now politically correct – what’s so “common” about this “era”?) since all accounts of ancient “secular” history, like the Egyptian pharaohs or Alexander the Great, are all based on one or two, maybe three accounts, written centuries after the events happened. Plus there was this guy Flavius Josephus (cool name), a Roman historian in the first century, who documents Jesus’ life – that He was a Jew and performed miracles and was claimed to have been raised from the dead – that also corroborates the four gospels. Interestingly, at least to me, I found out at a museum in Singapore that the Qur’an actually means “recitation” and was not written down until 80 years after Mohammed’s death. In fact, when Allah first called Mohammed to relay his message, Mohammed replied that he was inadequate because he could not write. So comparing the 4 gospels written 30 years after Jesus’ death to the Qur’an seems to favor the gospels. I wish I’d known that while discussing my faith with my irritating Moroccan guide Driss, six months ago.

And applying logic to Jesus’ resurrection – however silly that sounds – leads to the only conclusion that He was raised from the dead. Medically, He was dead, when blood and “water” gushed from His side when the Roman guard stabbed Him on the cross. His burial was witnessed by Roman guards whose lives were on the line to not let the tomb be raided. Jesus was pretty seriously beaten up, so to move the stone away from the door – the stone that required a couple of Roman soldiers to put in place – after 3 days without food or water, would be a miracle in its own right. Then hundreds of people saw Him in his former body – not one that still had all kinds of oozing wounds and red scars. And 10 of these 11 guys who said they’d never met the guy when He was arrested were now going to die brutal deaths because they believed they saw Him alive again. I mean, how many Buddhists have gone to their death, or been willing to, because of what they believed? Considering the whole point of enlightenment is to *poof!* be erased from existence, I don’t know that I’d be that interested…

Sweat & Gossip

2008-12-28T19:28:00.001-08:00

2-November, Sunday: Gideon’s Spring, Beit Shean, Qumran & the Dead Sea Scrolls, Masada, Ein Gedi

Gideon was one of the Israelites’ judges (see the Book of Judges, chapters 6-8). I like Gideon because he didn’t want to do the task God gave him but finally did. Maybe there’s hope for me. Anyway, the Israelites had been back sinning again and worshiping idols and other gods, so God chose Gideon to call their bluff and subsequently free them. Funny enough, though, Gideon wanted a miracle from God before he would do anything – another reason I like Gideon…

³⁶Then Gideon said to God, "You say that you have decided to use me to rescue Israel. ³⁷Well, I am putting some wool on the ground where we thresh the wheat. If in the morning there is dew only on the wool but not on the ground, then I will know that you are going to use me to rescue Israel." ³⁸That is exactly what happened. When Gideon got up early the next morning, he squeezed the wool and wrung enough dew out of it to fill a bowl with water. ³⁹Then Gideon said to God, "Don't be angry with me; let me speak just once more. Please let me make one more test with the wool. This time let the wool be dry, and the ground be wet." ⁴⁰ That night God did that very thing. The next morning the wool was dry, but the ground was wet with dew. (Judges 6:36-40)

So Gideon did what God told him to do and destroyed the altar to Baal (sounds familiar? I don’t feel so bad that God has to repeatedly destroy my altars to things and ideas that I think will make me happy), then gathered forces to fight the enemies of the Israelites, the Midians and Amaleks that were preparing for war on the fields of “Armageddon”, just down from Mount Carmel. But God told Gideon that he had gathered too many men to fight. Gideon discharged 22,000 men and stayed with 10,000.

⁴Then the Lord said to Gideon, "You still have too many men. Take them down to the water, and I will separate them for you there." ⁵Gideon took the men down to the water, and the Lord told him, "Separate everyone who laps up the water with his tongue like a dog, from everyone who gets down on his knees to drink." ⁶There were three hundred men who scooped up water in their hands and lapped it; all the others got down on their knees to drink. ⁷ The Lord said to Gideon, "I will rescue you and give you victory over the Midianites with the three hundred men who lapped the water. Tell everyone else to go home." (Judges 7:4-7)

Now, we’re not quite sure what message God was trying to send regarding a man’s character if he lapped up water like a dog versus kneeling and drinking, but God whittled the army down to 300 so that the Israelites couldn’t claim the victory as their own. And this is where I found myself on Sunday morning – at Gideon’s spring, contemplating how often I dismiss and disagree with God. Gideon gave each of his 300 men a trumpet, a torch, and a clay jar, and they quietly surrounded the enemy Midianite camp at midnight, each torch hidden inside a jar. At Gideon's signal, every man blew his trumpet and broke his jar. God confused the Midianites, and they started killing each other by mistake, while those who survived retreated.

This reminds me of one of my favorite scriptures, although it’s from another battle:

This is what the LORD says to you: 'Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God's. You will not have to fight this battle. Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the LORD will give you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the LORD will be with you. (2 Chronicles 20:15-17 with my italics)

Now, if you haven’t figured it out yet, Gideon wasn’t all perfect. (Actually, the only heroic thing he did was direct the army like God told him to – even God won the battle.) He killed two of the Midianite kings as justice for the death of his brothers, had many, many wives, and created a new idol for the Israelites from the gold won in the battle. So after the personal miracle of the dry wool, then the amazing defeat with only 300 men, Gideon leads the Israelites down again, although they did have peace while he was their judge. Always good to see that all these people in the Bible have about as much strength as I do.

After Gideon’s Spring, we headed south towards the Dead Sea. We passed Jericho, but with it being a PLO club house, didn’t stop. Qumran is located in the dry desert on the northwestern shore of the Dead Sea where nearly the entire Old Testament was discovered written on about 900 scrolls, with the first being discovered in 1947. Many scholars believe the Essenes, a Jewish sect which isolated itself in disgust of the corruption of the mainstream Judaism in Jerusalem, lived here, transcribing holy documents. The scrolls were found in a series of eleven caves and appeared to have been ordered and classified with a library system, as if the Essenes were purposely preserving the heritage against enemies that might destroy it.

A Bedouin shepherd found them when he threw a rock into a cave trying to oust a stray goat. He heard pottery shattering and upon investigating, found parchment scrolls wrapped in linen. He took them to a cobbler, so Nir’s story goes, to have new shoes made out of them, but the cobbler kept them and gave the boy a free pair (or even two) of shoes.

In March of that year, the 1948 War of Independence prompted the removal of the scrolls from Israel for safekeeping, mostly to Beirut. Then, the first Dead Sea Scrolls went up for sale with the posting of an ad in the Wall Street Journal on June 1, 1954:

MISCELLANEOUS FOR SALE

THE FOUR DEAD SEA SCROLLS

Biblical manuscripts dating back to at least 200 B.C. are for sale. This would be and ideal gift to an educational or religious institution by an individual or group.

Box F 206 WALL STREET JOURNAL

On July 1, they were purchased for $250k and went to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York. One of the first scholars to examine the scrolls was also into photography. The pictures he took of the texts are now more coveted than the scrolls themselves, for intellectual purposes at least, since many of the scrolls rapidly faded and degraded once unwrapped. Interestingly, the Beatitudes are also found in the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Nir & Itay had our group pretty well pegged, however, so before we got the tour of Qumran, we got an hour recess for lunch and playtime in the “schmear” factory. With the Dead Sea being 40% salt (and climbing), anyone can guess that this is great marketing for all kinds of stuff that women will put on their faces in the name of youth and beauty. I greatly succumbed to this idol worship, although I was in good company – even Nir was among us, buying from a list his wife had sent along with him.

Masada (meaning "fortress" in Hebrew) is the former fortress of Herod the Great on a plateau with cliffs (really, sheer cliffs!) ranging from 300 to 1300 feet high. It is absolutely amazing to walk through the ruins and look out over to the Dead Sea. We accessed it, luckily, by a gondola rather than the Snake Path which winds up the east side (the 1300-ft cliffs). Although Itay did say he’d run up it in something like 18 minutes once in his life…

The flat top is huge – it was definitely a city as big as Tel Dan or any of the others we’d seen. Along with all the watchtowers, there were storehouses, barracks, the palace (including a library and private bath house on the northern tip overlooking the desert and mountains and sea), cisterns for collecting rainwater, and public baths.

Herod the Great established Masada as a fortress around 35 BC as a refuge for himself in the event of a revolt – since he was quite a nasty guy, especially to his relatives and wives who frequently turned up dead. In 66 AD when the Jews and Romans began to battle over Jerusalem, a Jewish sect overtook Masada and lived there, even converting one of the buildings to a synagogue. When the Second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Romans, more Jews fled to Masada. But in 72 AD, the Roman governor got fed up with them and laid siege. Eight camps were built around Masada by the Roman army, and their walls are still visible from the city. The Romans built a ramp (which also still exists today) against the lowest cliffs on the west side and successfully invaded after many months – only to find the 936 Jewish inhabitants dead from mass suicide. Except for a few women who later told the details of the murders and suicides, they would rather be dead than face certain capture, defeat, slavery or execution by their enemies. In the war of 1967, the phrase “Masada Never Again” became famous, declared by the IDF general Moshe Dayan, although two meanings can be interpreted by the slogan, which is still used. Will the Israelis have victory over their enemies, or rather die than succumb to them?

We also traveled to Beit She’an, a city that was probably founded by the Egyptians around 1500 BC but became the capital of the Roman Decapolis – ten cities that held the essential culture of Greece and Rome. As the capital, it was strategically significant, being located to control the trade from the Mediterranean to the east, as well as from Jerusalem to the Sea of Galilee. The Roman ruins of Beit She’an were even more impressive than those of Cesaria, on the coast. We sat in a 3-tiered amphitheater with the columns on and around the stage still intact. Along the main streets, mosaics, like those I saw in Valubilis in Morocco, were very well preserved and also lined by columns and the ruins of walls of the houses, shops, and city limits. Beit She’an figures in the Bible as the place where King Saul’s body, along with his son Jonathan’s, were hung on the city walls after they were killed in battle against the Philistines. The struggle between Saul and his successor (though not by bloodline) David, is a great example of true chivalry and respect for God’s plan. David and Jonathan were also best friends, and while Saul’s jealousy ruined his relationship with David, it could not dissolve David and Jonathan’s friendship.

In Ein Gedi, meaning “Kid (as in young goat) Spring“ in Hebrew, just north of Masada and on our way to Jerusalem, we remembered how David showed incredible character and obedience to God. Ein Gedi is a little canyon known for the wild goats that inhabit it. When Saul turned on David and was wanting to have him killed, David fled to the wilderness and lived off the land. While obviously not an easy time for David, he writes many of the Psalms expressing his true feelings of loneliness and betrayal during this time of running and hiding from Saul. In Ein Gedi, Saul finds rest in a cave from his pursuit of David, though David happened to be taking refuge in the same cave. While David could have snuck up and killed Saul, he instead snipped a piece of his coat as proof of how close he was, then called humbly out to him for a truce.

Finally, after a long, wonderful day, we ascended the hill to Jerusalem. Nir read us Psalm 122, one of the Psalms of Ascent (Psalms 120-134) which were a series sung by the Jewish pilgrims as they made their way to Jerusalem three times a year to celebrate their feasts and atonement. The Psalms of Ascent cover everything from safety during the travel, reliance on God for direction (“I lift my eyes up to the mountains; where does my help come from?”), the blessings of family, and peace for Jerusalem. The number of psalms, 14, corresponds to the number of the steps going up to the Temple, and pilgrims would sing a psalm for each step they took at the end of their journey. According to Nir, one always talks about “going up” or “ascending” to Jerusalem, the city on the hill. Even pilgrims from Everest would say they were “going up” to Jerusalem.

As our entire group was gathered in the public bath house on top of Masada, Itay told us this was how the Jews passed their leisure time – sweat and gossip. I thought this was an appropriate phrase, especially coming into – sorry, ascending to Jerusalem. Constantine, the first Roman emperor to convert to Christianity, sent his mother Helena to Jerusalem in 325 AD to talk to the locals in order to establish the locations of various events of Christ’s life and to gather Christian relics. Many of these sites are owned by either the Catholic Church or the Greek Orthodox Church who have erected elaborate churches on the sites. Some sites are disputed, and often visiting these sights leaves a distaste because so many sects want control over them but often settle for a truce to share the sight. The supposed tomb site, glorified by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem’s old city, is shared by something like six or nine different Christian denominations, and yet many scholars place Jesus’ tomb outside the city, which correlates to the Jews’ law that the dead be buried outside camp or city boundaries. My friend Julie thinks it’ll be cool when we get to see who had the correct GPS for where all the events in Christ’s life actually happened. But for now, it all comes down to sweat and gossip.

PHOTOS!!!

2008-12-01T21:34:00.001-08:00

I’m frustrated that I can’t seem to post photos the way I used to, imbedded in the appropriate post. But this might just be easier anyway. The link below goes to all my photo albums, and I’ve finally started using captions, so they’re pretty self-explanatory. Also, I realized that there was a whole album of photos from the Marrakesh market that I didn’t post by accident, and they are some of my favorites, so you can check them out if you want.

www.picasaweb.google.com/lauriebuss

Laughter and Little Miracles

2008-12-01T21:27:00.001-08:00

Halloween morning, and I was on the Sea of Galilee. Our group and pastors and guides climbed into an oversized fishing-type boat, greeted by the Star-Spangled Banner as the crew raised the American flag alongside the Israeli. Very corny and touristy, but I had to get over my self-consciousness at being perceived as a tourist. Well, what else was I? Not quite Jewish, although my friend Christian in Singapore told me I was on my way as I finished reading my Israel book in Singapore.

But somewhere between Pastor Daniels’ comments and Nir & Itay’s rousing rendition of Hava Nagila, I got quiet as I looked out onto the water. This was where the apostles went through several trials; the most notable was their lack of faith after just witnessing the miracle on the Mount of Beatitudes of the feeding of 5000 families with 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread. And then, thinking they’d be drowned, they saw a ghost. Peter, doubtful at first, decided that if the ghost on the water was actually Jesus, then he should be able to walk on water, too. So he jumped out, keeping his eyes on Jesus and believing it was Him, and walked on the water of the Sea of Galilee. Of course, then he looked down, thought that he couldn’t actually be doing this, got scared, and started to sink.

So big prayers, was it? That was yesterday’s epiphany, and today’s was that I didn’t have the faith for big prayers. Prayers need to be prayed in confidence. Yes, my good friend Mary died of cancer when I would have bet my life that she was going to be healed. I still struggle with this one, as most everyone else on the planet who has prayed for a loved one to be healed or a peace to end conflict, and yet people still die young and tragically everyday. But confidence in prayer is not confidence in how God responds. That’s none of my business. Confidence in prayer is knowing God hears, sees the situation from His perspective, and acts, with all the prayers in mind, on behalf of everyone involved (which is usually a lot more than I know). Now immediately as I write this, I know I’ve opened up a whole other realm on prayer. How can horrible things happen if God answers all prayers with love? How can God let certain things happen if He loves each of us? Why should I bother praying at all if God already knows what’s going to happen? (because, after all, the Bible says this). Why would my prayers affect anything?

While I was in France, I read several of CS Lewis’ books (of Narnia fame). He wrote a whole book on pain and why it has to exist, even while God loves us. First, He put us in a world bound by 4 dimensions, and we understand our world only in this way. If my dad falls off his roof, God can’t just make the cement driveway into a swimming pool so he wouldn’t get hurt. And conversely, when my brother falls out of a boat while rafting and is underwater by a strong current, God can’t just raise the rock bed up from the river floor to get him up into the air. All these things change the way the world works, and what is good for my dad (water), isn’t good for my brother, and so everyone would be operating in their own worlds. Besides the fact that if our world was pain-free and individualized for each of us, why would we need God, or even think about Him? Pain certainly brings me closer to God, whether my own pain and shock and grief, or someone else’s. It makes me grow up (sometimes), depend more on God (sometimes), and be comforted (sometimes). Of course, then I want to believe pain can be avoided by a miracle. But how can I expect God to save me or my dad or anyone when I first run to 911, doctors, and every other hope on this earth, then remember God as a last resort? Besides, I don’t need a miracle to know He’s there. God does miracles to show Himself, so that I can believe Him. He does this when I need it. God cured me of an affliction that I would call a miracle – doctors hadn’t done much for me. But life continues and I still look for God. I guess this is the part where I looked down into the water that I was walking on and couldn’t believe. Luckily, each day is filled with miracles if I just realize it. I was, after all, being very well taken care of, even on a mundane Halloween morning, even with most of my possessions somewhere between Paris and Tel Aviv.

Above the Sea of Galilee, we hiked the Mount of Beatitudes, the most likely place that Jesus gave the Sermon on the Mount and His disciples fed the 5000 families with 2 fish and 5 loaves of bread. Now, by anyone’s standards, this is a miracle – not only the food, but the after-dinner entertainment of Jesus speaking to such a huge crowd without the assistance of an AV/IT team and Bang&Olfsen speakers.

In Matthew, Chapters 5-7, the Sermon on the Mount is recorded. It begins with the Beatitudes and also contains the Lord’s Prayer and some of the better known teachings of Jesus: don’t resist evil, turn the other cheek, do unto others…, salt of the earth, light of the world, and don’t judge others unless it’s how you want to be judged.

The Beatitudes (from Latin beatus, meaning "blessed" or "happy”) are encouraging and comforting, showing how to find God, both in thought and action. They also give the perspective Christians should have of the afterlife, the Kingdom of Heaven, alongside a healthy detachment from this life.

The Beatitudes (Matthew 5:1-12)

Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them saying:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit,
      for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
      for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
      for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
      for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful,
      for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
      for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
      for they will be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
      for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

These 8 characteristics of the Beatitudes are those needed to be blessed or happy in the sense of having an internal peace that isn’t based upon what is happening in this life at the moment. To me this also sounds kinda Buddhist, with the 4 or 7 tenets to achieve enlightenment. I suppose this kind of “find peace by detaching from the world” thinking is common to most religions. And I think most people agree on it, even if it can’t be practiced perfectly. I guess I believe Jesus’ way, though, because He is different than other founders of religion in that He said that He was the Son of God. No other leader said this, and conversely were quite emphatic that only God should be worshipped and not himself. So it would be quite correct to say that Jesus was a bit crazy, except for the fact that He made the Pharisees and Sadducees, the top religious leaders and university professor equivalents, feel threatened and agitated to the point that they wanted to kill Him. So Jesus can’t really be considered a great leader, on par with Buddha, Moses, or Mohammed, because He was demanding worship of Himself. Unless, of course, if He really was a spirit – more than a man. He could have been the Devil, though, but then He went and did all those well-documented and compassionate miracles…

(My beliefs are actually based on more than this, but I’m trying not to get on the soapbox for too long at a time)

OK, so after hiking back down to the Sea of Galilee from the top of the Mount of Beatitudes, we went to Capernaum. This town had a prosperous fishing industry, (about 230 fishing boats on the Sea of Galilee, according to Flavius Josephus, a first-century Roman historian) and also strong trading due to its location on the Damascus-Egypt trade route. Jesus moved to Capernaum after leaving Nazareth, probably because such a large community with international merchants gave good opportunities to preach. His first apostles came from Capernaum: the fisherman Peter (Simon) and his brother Andrew, as well as John and James, also brothers. At Capernaum, we saw the ruins of the city, including the Temple at which Jesus had taught and amazed the elders (and the demons) by His knowledge, as well as Peter’s house. Finally, after a St. Peter fish lunch (they really have a great fish called “St. Peter’s fish”) at a kibbutz by the water, we drove to the top of the Golan Heights, where we learned about Israel’s victory over the Syrians there in 1967.

The following morning, we toured Tel Dan (“Mound of Dan”, where Dan is one of the 12 Tribes of Israel) and Cesarea Philippi (where Peter first recognized Jesus as God’s Son). Both of these sites are in the northernmost regions of Israel, within bombing distance of the Lebanese and Syrian borders, and both are archaeological sites as well as Biblical sites. At Tel Dan, we saw ancient city ruins and learned about life in the cities from 2000-3000 years ago, as well as seeing an altar which looked quite similar to the Israelite altars from 3000 years ago (around the time of Kings David and Solomon), but was altered enough to be recognized as a degraded – one used for Golden-Calf worship. Jeroboam, and subsequently Rehoboam, became king of the 10 northern tribes of Israel after Solomon died. They both thought that the pilgrimage to Jerusalem 3 times a year was too much – it hurt the economy and tired the people – so under Rehoboam, two new pilgrimage sites were founded, in Dan and Bethel. But giving people what they think they want to make them happy rarely makes them or God happy, and these new Golden Calf altars slid the Israelite kingdom into centuries of decline. (The story is in 1 Kings 11-14.) As far as archaeology, I was most impressed by the discovery of Tel Dan’s 3-arched city gate, which puts the engineering of arches at the time of the Canaanites, rather than the Romans.

The afternoon ended at a baptism site on the Jordan River (the exact location of Jesus’ baptism by John the Baptist is not known, but thought to be north of the Sea of Galilee). Several of our group were baptized, some for the first time and others to renew their commitment. While I was baptized as a baby in the Presbyterian Church by my parents, my pastor James in Cannes convinced me to be baptized by immersion because it is the method of baptisms in the Bible. In the Book of Acts, written by Luke, a doctor (same guy who wrote the Gospel of Luke), the early church is documented. They only baptized adults, and then by immersion, because it is making a commitment to Christ – something like a marriage vow. I don’t know what the future holds when making a commitment to marriage (which is why I’ve neatly avoided it), and I also don’t know how Christ will change my life. But I’ve offered my life up, just as to a spouse in marriage – and done out of love and respect. So I was finally convicted, and Pastor James baptized me in 2005, and I didn’t feel that I needed to be baptized again in the Jordan.

Our touring days were long and hurried, but even with all my introspection, I couldn’t help but laugh so much with our group and our guides. We ate our meals together, and several times I found myself at the loudest table (imagine that!). It started feeling like a kibbutz, at least for me, as I was wearing clothes and sunglasses and shawls from some of the other women, while I waited for my suitcases, and borrowing Julie’s camera because mine was so temperamental. (These are the little miracles God does for me – provides for me – that I so often overlook.) Our last night on the Sea of Galilee at a gorgeous resort, our table was rolling on the floor laughing as we plotted out a CSI enactment starring some of our fellow church-goers who were sharing a bottle of wine poolside as a gorgeous sunset gave way to night… And then, of course, Dan had to bust-a-move in front of our bus driver David, but I don’t think I can quite describe that properly.

PHOTOS!!!

2008-11-20T18:33:00.001-08:00

For some reason I can’t get my photos embedded into the specific blogs they belong to, and I’m tired of struggling with it. So here’s the link to all my blog photos, and I’ve also added captions to them all.

www.picasaweb.google.com/lauriebuss

Fire, Water, and Wine

2008-11-17T00:27:00.000-08:00

Thursday 30-October: Cesaria, Mount Carmel, the Plains of Mediggo, Nazareth, Cana, Tiberias

The first day had us in the Purple Eggs (the nickname for our tour buses) heading north, out of the morning traffic in Tel Aviv. Along the Mediterranean, we stopped in Cesaria, which Herod built in order to make himself rich. He was an amazing leader with great vision and had the Mediterranean port built by putting huge blocks of stone in the sea and building up a natural harbor, with the opening facing north, protecting it from the southern currents. Along with the ideal port for the largest trading ships at the time, all the amenities of a great city were available, including a seaside hippodrome, as horse racing was the most popular sport, and a 3-tiered amphitheater. An aqueduct brought water from a spring 15 miles away with only a 2 inch drop in elevation.
For us pilgrims, its significance lay in that it was the first place that a Roman was converted to Christianity. The apostle Simon Peter was in Jaffa, just south of Tel Aviv, when he was told that 2 men would come looking for him and ask him to go with them to Cesaria. We drove on the bus at least an hour, so that was quite a long walk – two days per the Bible. Cornelius, a Roman centurion, also had a vision while praying that he should send for Simon Peter. Once Peter arrived and began telling them the gospel, they believed before he even finished, and subsequently his entire household was baptized. So here was where Christianity began to infiltrate the Roman Empire, culminating in 306 AD with the ascension of Constantine the Great as the first Christian emperor and declaration of Rome as a Christian city.

Carmel means “God’s vineyard” (“El” is God in Hebrew), and driving inland from the sea, the Purple Eggs climbed Mount Carmel. The scenery was lovely, with low trees sheltering bright green grass and white stones and rocks. It was a gradual climb for about 20 minutes or more, but the other side of the mountain is quite steep and overlooks the Plains of Mediggo. Here occurred one of God’s most incredible demonstrations of power and response to prayer. (This is from 1Kings 18:16-45, so you know that I didn’t make this up!) The prophet Elijah challenged 450 priests of the pagan god Baal, who now counted the Israelites among the congregation, to demonstrate who worshipped the true and powerful god. Was it the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob? Or Baal? So they climbed Mt. Carmel with their sacrifices and altars and a trail of Israelites following behind. The priests of Baal sacrificed and prayed and wailed and cut themselves and did anything else they could think of in order to get some demonstration of supernatural power. And nothing. All afternoon, and nothing. So finally Elijah had the people construct the altar according to the laws Moses had written and placed the sacrifice on it. Then he instructed them to dig a moat around the altar, fill it with water, and douse the offering and altar three times with water. And then he called on God to show His power. Immediately, fire fell from the sky, devouring the sacrifice and altar and water so that they disappeared in an instant and the ground became dry dust again.

Standing on the rooftop patio of a Catholic monastery at the top of Mount Carmel, I began to think about my prayers. Elijah succeeded several times in demonstrating God’s power to the people, yet in the New Testament of the Bible, James writes that Elijah was a man just like any other. There are enough other scriptures (enough to be longer than my blog!) that tell me that I have the amazing power of God and ability to demonstrate it, so that my head knows it but I don’t really believe it in my heart. Are my prayers really a time of respite from the world to be with God? Not often. The timing needs to be just right, the sofa comfortable, the lighting agreeable, and the air scented with perfume of jasmine flowers outside my window…. So, no, I don’t usually remember how wonderful and resuscitating my prayer time can be. And when I get on my knees at night and say prayers for at least 5 people, do I have the confidence that my prayers will manifest in their lives? Let’s just put it this way – when they do, God has to knock me over the head to make me remember that I prayed for them. My prayer scorecard is biased, thinking of the “negative” or “unanswered” prayers while struggling to remind myself what miracles God has done for me and those I’ve prayed for. And I pray, too, that God will sometimes hide His wonderful answers to my prayer in order to keep my ego from exploding. Well, this is getting too personal and embarrassing, so let’s move on…

…down to the Plains of Megiddo. Tel Megiddo (“tel” in Hebrew meaning hill) was built upon 26 layers of ruins of previous cities from ancient times, so it’s quite the archaeological dream. It was, of course, much easier to build on existing ruins and foundations since the raw material was already there and the land cleared. This site was popular because it was right at the end of the pass through the Carmel mountains and into the Valley of Jezreel. It has become known as the place of Armageddon because it was also known (in Greek, I think) as Har-Magedon, which became Armageddon in English. In the Book of Revelation, the last book of the Bible and written by John, one of Jesus’ favorite disciples, the final battle between Satan (“The Adversary”, “The Accuser”) and Jesus will occur here. While Mount Carmel, visible from Tel Megiddo, was prophesied to be a place of respite, and in fact has had no battle taking place there, the Plains of Megiddo have witnessed many. Fifteen centuries before Jesus was here, the Egyptians under Pharaoh Thutmose III waged war against the Canaanites. In 609 BC, Egypt again fought Judea here, and even as recently as 1918, the British clashed here with the forces of the Ottoman Empire. Standing on the ruins of city walls and ancient altars of Tel Megiddo, I was reminded of the fact that God, with a word, could just destroy Satan and his forces here and bring us back to Him. And I was reminded again of the fact that He will, in His time.

And finally, our daily bread, cooked in an outdoor brick oven, accompanied by hummus and roasted chicken and lentil soup. We were in Nazareth, the childhood home of Jesus. It is now the capital and largest city in the North District of Israel, though the largest population group is Arab. Nazareth was originally in the land given to the Arabs in the UN’s partition plan of 1947, but then fell into Israel’s borders after the 1948 War for Independence. Our tour group got its first taste of the differences between an Arab and a Jewish section of town, and they were immediately evident to us. Itay often referred to the disorganized parking seen in Arab districts, but the stores, dress, and general disarray and dirtiness were also give-aways. I felt like I was back in Morocco. Entering Nazareth began a conversation with Itay about Israeli Arabs, and included mention that they don’t serve in the IDF, which is compulsory for 3 years consecutively and then 2 months per year until the age of 40. While the Jewish Israelis don’t trust the Arabs and don’t necessarily want them in the IDF, and while the Arabs certainly don’t want to serve, this issue deepens the divide between the two groups.

In Jesus’ time, Nazareth was a tiny town, with a population of maybe 400 to 500 people. It was such an unlikely place for the Messiah to come from that Nathaniel, one of Jesus’ future disciples, exclaimed “Can anything good come from Nazareth?” (John 1:46) As Pastor Daniel says, it’s like a national revolution starting in a one-gas-station town on Route 66. But Jesus did grow up there, and after starting His ministry, avoided going back. Often our families and closest friends don’t believe we can really become what God wants us to be because they’ve seen us grow (and hopefully grow up!) and have put us in a box of predictability. I think when Jesus said that we would have to reject our fathers and mothers to follow Him, He was referring to this, not a rejection of the commandment to honor your father and mother. So Jesus could not do many miracles in Nazareth because the people had little faith in Him. Capernaum became the center of His ministry, so with full stomachs and nice pictures of the view, the Purple Eggs rolled on out of Nazareth.

On our way to the city of Tiberius on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee, we passed through Cana, the town of Jesus’ first miracle. He and Mary, his mom, were at a wedding reception when they witnessed the horrific situation of being out of wine. Mary, I guess with all she’d been through with Jesus over the previous 30 years, told him to do something, and though He protested (“My time has not yet come”), when your mom tells you to do something, you really probably ought to. And she wasn’t taking any of His divine excuses when she told the servants to do whatever Jesus said. So He caved and had them bring 6 jugs of water (my pastor in Cannes, James, recently did a sermon on this and estimated that the 6 jugs equated to about 520 bottles of wine – nice!). When the master of the feast was given a glass, he exclaimed that it was better than any of the wine served earlier. The two churches in Cana, who both claim to be built on the site of the wedding reception, are now the favorites for couples to renew their wedding vows. All day we were wondering what our guides, Itay and Nir, believed, because they both knew both Old and New Testament scriptures and Israeli history in depth, but were Jewish by birth. However, Itay gave us a clue as we drove thru Cana by saying “yes, I heard Jesus made some good wine”.

By sunset we got our first view of the Sea of Galilee and set up camp at the luxurious resort of Gai Beach (“gai” meaning valley in Hebrew) right on the water in the city of Tiberias. It was a secular city at the time of Jesus, and He didn’t visit here, though John the Baptist did. At the fork in the road just north of Tiberias, Jesus continued north along the water’s edge to Capernaum, the center of His ministry.

The 11th Commandment

2008-11-16T21:40:00.000-08:00

One of our Jewish guides, Nir, told us the 11^th Commandment – support Israel. At first, we used it as our battle cry when let off the buses to a site with a gift shop, but Nir really meant supporting all of Israel, including defending it on the international stage, and not just the economy. Aside from many spiritual insights on this trip (which will be in the next blog entry), I also learned much about the State of Israel and Israeli-Arab relations from our awesome guides, Nir and Itay. I have to admit that when the media mentioned Israel, Palestine, the West Bank, or Gaza, I tuned out. And that is one of Israel’s biggest detriments – how the world perceives them. There is an anti-Israeli bias in the American and European media. The perception of Israel the aggressor is pushed, with images of the poor Palestinian refugees and even made-up stories about Israelis attacking refugee camps and doing horrible things. Israel could use some good marketing to combat the Arab world, since Arab leaders are experts in spin and, with censored domestic media, convincing their people that Israel is the cause of domestic problems. But Israel doesn’t seem focused on correcting the world’s perception. In 2001 when the tourist industry tanked due to the exponential rise of suicide bombings in Jerusalem, Nir wrote the Minister of Tourism and suggested they employ tourist guides to go abroad to educate and promote Israel. He was duly thanked for his letter.

29-October – Wednesday

A long long line to check in greeted me at Nice, eventually hearing that the computers were down. Saying goodbye to my friends, once again, I was headed to meet a group from my California church, Bible Fellowship in Ventura, for 7 days in Israel and 3 in Cairo, Egypt. Finally, with a hand-written ticket to board, I was off to Paris, Charles de Gaulle only about an hour late – though it didn’t bother me since I had a 7-hour overnight layover and was just looking for a place to sleep. Amazingly, even with the armrests on the chairs which are supposed to prevent people like me from sleeping across the bench, I was able to curl up and sleep a bit without too much discomfort. The entire airport shuts down between midnight and 5 am, so I wasn’t surprised when I checked in at El Al airlines for my flight to Tel Aviv that my luggage had not been directed out of “central booking” and wouldn’t be on the plane. The check-in for El Al occupied one end of a remote terminal of the airport, and was patrolled by 4 armed guards who looked about 15 years old. At the counter, the woman began with the usual questions of who packed my bags, then asked me where my luggage was – already checked through. One bad answer compounded on another: I have a return flight out of Israel, but it’s booked on another ticket; I’m going for a church tour; they’re coming from LA and I’m traveling alone; all the tour information is in my checked luggage; my continuing flight info is only on the web (since it is always changing); I have a Moroccan immigration stamp because I was there for 3 weeks; I stayed with friends; American; yes, I met some Moroccans; no, I haven’t remained in touch with them; I bought this flight last Friday; my St. Petersburg to Tel Aviv ticket was used to return me to Nice from St. P because I didn’t have a visa to gain entry into Russia; I didn’t know; I thought I’d researched it; I have one for France because I stayed there longer than the allowable 90 days for a normal tourist visa; no, not one for Russia; my group is from LA; I leave Israel on Nov 9^th; to Singapore; to visit a friend; no, then to New Zealand; to visit another friend; I’ll be returning to LA Dec 19^th; April 15^th to Morocco; from LA; 3 weeks; then Italy; France; then I was in Berlin to visit relatives; an artist; no, (laugh) I’m not famous; yes, professional; yes you can find me on the website with exhibitions and galleries I’ve been in; but before that I was also an aerospace engineer; there was no direct flight from Nice to Tel Aviv; this was the only flight available; last Friday; originally supposed to come from St. Petersburg; the tour details are in my luggage; those are my paintings.

I was surprised by the concern over my Moroccan visit, but was quickly educated the first day of our trip. Israel’s enemies are plentiful – basically all Arab nations – and every neighbor has waged war against Israel at some point. The Arabs have strongly opposed a Jewish state from the start, and it was actually the British, in the British Mandate after World War I, that acknowledged the Jewish sector and began inventing all kinds of dividing schemes to separate the Jews from the Arabs. While Palestine has outright refused to accept any kind of agreement in hopes of preventing a Jewish sector or state, many foreign powers, beginning with the British, have played Arabs against Jews and vice-versa in order to further their own interests in the area. Since Israel’s independence 60 years ago, war has occurred at least once a decade. Israel now spends over 30% of the state’s budget on defense, though it was close to 50% when Israel was young.

My interrogation at El Al’s check-in counter managed to convince them that all my stuff needed to be searched, me included. I was taken to a small side room, took off my sweaters and shoes which, with all my bags, went into a neighboring room behind a curtain with all kinds of interesting x-ray equipment, although I wasn’t really interested. I was cold. While all my stuff was being completely taken out, pocket by pocket, of my bags, I was searched and even had to take my pants down to my ankles. As I was feeling sorry for myself, I thought of my latest reading on the political history of Israel, a book I’d bought in Heathrow a few years ago to try to understand the region. Of course I’d never gotten around to reading it until this trip.

In the late 1880s, Zionism, the movement that the Jews should have a homeland because they have experienced so much racism and persecution and have nowhere to go, gained momentum. However, Modern Zionism, as opposed to the time of the Second Temple period which ended in 70 AD, is secular in nature. Theodor Herzl was the leader, a journalist living in Vienna. At one point the Zionists were considering a part of Africa, not much populated, and the vote was close, but was decided that Jerusalem should be the capital because God had given them this land and their history was there. While returning to the homeland wasn’t the best thing, it was believed that it was the right thing to do. As Jews began their emigration to Jerusalem, the British, who controlled the area under colonial rule, began to limit the number of Jewish immigrants.

The Jews had no where to go – and it wasn’t just the British limits on Jewish immigration to Jerusalem and surrounding areas, but most other nations did not allow the Jews immigration or safety in times of persecution. In the late 1930s, several very rich Jewish families hired a boat, the St. Louis, to escape Europe. Arriving at Havana, the authorities decided to prohibit them from disembarking. America also refused them, and finally Britain allowed their children to stay, but the adults finally went back to Germany and were killed. Over the years, Israel has had waves of immigration as they have faced hardships of various kinds, whether economical hardship or political or religious persecution in other countries. In the early 90s, over a million Jews from the Soviet Union and Eastern Bloc came to Israel. They arrived with very little, but supported each other like family. No matter when the immigrants arrived, they have always been well-assimilated, although when Asian and African Jews arrived in the 1960s and 70s, Israel faced issues of non-homogeneity, but these groups eventually made their way into middle-class society. Even now, I was reading in the newspaper that Israel has a Ministry of Assimilation that helps Jewish immigrants to find jobs, reduces or eliminates customs fees, allows for health care, etc. Part of the Zionist movement included providing economic aid to Jewish immigrants to Israel, and international economic help from Jews all over the world was given for the immigrants. This help still exists, though now in the form of many different aid organizations.

So thinking of what I’d read in my book of Israeli political history: their persecution, difficulties in forming and keeping a state, and assimilating immigrants coming from every different culture, I couldn‘t whine nor complain about the precautions El Al was taking.

Continuing to shiver and wait for all my stuff to be returned, I thought that the plane must be close to leaving soon. People were going in and out of the room, and into the back, talking brusquely in Hebrew on walkie-talkies. I felt invisible. One of the women went in and out of the office a few times with my book – the one on Israeli politics – in her hand. Finally, she sat down next to me and asked “Can you tell me about this book?” I laughed, and she asked why. I apologized, but it was all just too overwhelming and there was nothing else to do but laugh. I told her I was upset and tired and apologized. The book, entitled “Why Blame Israel?” could definitely be misconstrued. I insisted it was pro-Israel and then had to defend myself, something like giving a report to the professor in front of the class, but at 6am. I told her how it talked about the Zionist Movement, the British Mandate, the US policy toward Israel during & after the Cold War, the Palestine rejection of any attempt at dividing the countries, etc. Since I bought it in Heathrow and since the British are not really pro-Israel, the title makes more sense. So why did I wait two years to read it? I don’t know – I compulsively buy a lot of books, and this trip was finally the incentive to read it or dump it. Finally my small backpack, including the book, was returned – everything in a new compartment. Then I got my shoes, sweaters, and even my paintings, which they’d threatened to unwrap or put down in the hold, but finally generously gave back to me. My laptop and small carry-on were going in the hold, and I was escorted through passport control to the plane which was already boarded and ready to go.

With the British closing Jerusalem and surrounding areas to Jewish immigrants, plus the unbelievable persecution in Europe, the need for independence became evident. In 1948, Jews waged war against the Arabs, and Israel became a state. However, once gaining independence, to remain a state, Israel needed a strong economy, as well as a strong defense. Severe food rationing was implemented, and there were many things that “weren’t talked about” regarding cultural differences as Jews from all corners of the globe came together to unite. This was how the kibbutz began – kibbutz meaning “a group of people” in Hebrew. There was a spirit of camaraderie, of family, of unity, but those who have lived long enough have witnessed it decline. Probably the turning point for Israel changing from “family” to separate domestic interests was the loss of the Labour Party (the party in power since 1948) in 1977. This was caused by disillusionment of the population to the Yom Kippur War of 1973. Israel had gloriously won the 6-Day War in 1967 with the wipeout of the Egyptian Air Force while the planes sat on the ground ready to strike Israel. Although the Yom Kippur War was actually militarily won by Israel with the help of an infusion of American weapons mid-war, they gave up much of the land they’d won in 1967 in exchange for agreements of permanent peace – Sinai to Egypt and part of the Golan Heights to Syria. (As we drove across the Sinai Peninsula the following week, our Egyptian guide often referred to “getting the Sinai back from Israel in 1973”. I asked him how they got it back and he responded that they’d won.) Anyway, between 1967 and 1973, the Jews felt a surge of pride, confidence, and triumph. They thought they’d decisively won against their neighbors and peace was interminable. Israelis adopted the new fashions and trends and culture of Europe and the States, beginning to feel on par with them. This included the culture of individualism, which also contributed to the decline of the nation’s kibbutz culture. But Israelis’ confidence tumbled in 1973 with the reality that they still had neighbors unwilling to concede peace, and confidence in the ruling government party tumbled as well. Additionally, the new Asian and African Jewish immigrants, being the newest immigrants and at the bottom of the economic ladder, were less supportive of the old regime of founding fathers and mothers, so the Labour party was voted out in 1977. Our guide Nir described the change in Israel from the earlier politicians (the initial strong Zionists and those influenced by the kibbutz culture). North of Cesaria, our first sight-to-see in Israel, is the Crocodile River. Crocodiles were formerly used in pagan worship and were considered sacred. So 3 crocodiles in the Crocodile River were finishing off their breakfast, washing it down with an espresso, when they began talking about what to eat for lunch. One said he’d like one of the blond Swedish volunteers at the kibbutz up river. The second wanted a wild boar, and the third a politician. Why a politician? The others asked? …because he’s fat, rich, and has no back bone.

When the League of Nations formally gave Britain control in 1922, the mandate accepted that the Jews should have some land. Refugees from both sides had to cross over to their respective states as British politicians drew and re-drew the boundaries. While the Jewish refugees from Palestine were assimilated within a generation or less, the Palestinians have not assimilated their people for 4 generations. This is convenient for the Arab governments to play victim as an image to get compassion and support from governments around the world. However, Israel has not experienced antagonism just from Palestine, but also with Jordan, Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, and Iran (and probably a few others). When Moses asked God what would be the price to pay for the land of milk and honey, God replied – well, the neighbors aren’t the best…

It’s interesting to become aware of the “objective” media in Europe and the States usually slanted against Israel as the oppressor and aggressor. Israel has fought 6 wars from the war for independence in 1948 to the war with Lebanon in 2006 The Israelis did make the first strike in many of the wars, but it was against excessive intimidation over time or public announcements and readiness of its enemies to strike against Israel. Aside from Egypt’s President Nasser making threats to go to war on Israel in 1967, the Syrians also intimidated Israel for the 3 years prior. In 1964, they evacuated all of their civilians from the Golan Heights, a mountain range bordering the north east side of the Sea of Galilee. The Syrian army moved in, installing bunkers and setting mines, and began firing upon boats in the Sea as well as small villages, kibbutzim, and farms near the shore. The farmers installed lead or steel barriers on their tractors to protect themselves. This intimidation eventually escalated to a daily thing. The 6-Day War against Egypt broke out with Israel’s decimation of the Egyptian Air Force, which was awaiting orders as Nasser was flexing his muscles and threatening to attack Israel. While Israelis in the north pleaded with their government to also fight Syria to end the deadly, daily attacks from the Golan Heights, they were initially denied. However, with the decisive and quick victory against Egypt, the possibility opened. As IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) turned toward the northeast, a grassroots campaign to mislead the Syrians began. Civilians drove their cars out to the point where a ground strike on the Golan Heights would be obvious because it had the most gradual incline up to the top. Then they turned around and drove back without headlights on and returned with headlights on again. So the Syrians were expecting a large contingent of IDF ready to attack at that location. However, the IDF attacked in 5 different points on the Heights, thereby taking the Syrians by surprise. It was quite easy for the Israelis, and as they camped out the first night, Syrian spin masters worked against themselves as the defending commanders on the Golan Heights heard that Israelis were marching on Damascus. So the Syrians high-tailed out of the Heights and in the morning, there was no one for the Israelis to fight. Both Nir and Itay had been high ranking officers in the IDF, and their sons are now serving, so it was interesting to hear about these wars first-hand.

Due to God causing him to stutter as a result of his disbelief that he could do battle with Pharaoh, Moses told the Israelites their promised land was “Ca-a-anan” , though God had intended it to be peaceful Canada. However, peace treaties were reached in the decades after 1973, and some were even respected. Due to the amicable relationship between King Hussein and Israeli PM Rabin, in 1994 Jordan and Israel became cordial, but as Itay said, they don’t hug each other. (However, the peace has been strained since 1998, partly out of jealousy that Egypt receives US monetary aid for adhering to their peace treaty while Jordan does not). Settling the Yom Kippur War of 1973, peace talks between Egypt’s most loved President Anwar Sadat (from 1971-1981) and Jimmy Carter (“Uncle Jimmy” as the Egyptians call him), led to a treaty. However, distrust remains, evidenced both by my interrogation by El Al about my reasons for being in Morocco (as a part of the Arab world that generally has something against Israel) as well as the communication division between the two “sides” of our tour – 7 days in Israel and 3 in Egypt. It was difficult to get information from the Israelis about what and whom to expect in Egypt with respect to our tour, and vice-versa. They weren’t well-coordinated across the border, even though both sets of tour guides were amazingly coordinated once we were in their respective countries.

While Iraq is no longer a current worry of Israel due to the wars there by the US, Syria and Lebanon, evidenced by the war in 2006, as well as Iran, with their anti-Israel rhetoric, are still quite antagonistic. The US supports Israel because it is the only functioning democracy in the Middle East and is quite promising with an economy and standard of living are as good as Western Europe and the States. But Israeli Jews still have a much different culture, specifically with respect to the value of human life, than the Arab culture, and this is also exploited in wars, identified or not. Our group also observed the obvious contrast of Israel to the Arab world when we went to Egypt. In fact, getting back on the Purple Eggs (as our Israeli buses were nicknamed) after 3 days in Egypt, we all cheered for Itay and Israel – especially the women who could now rely on clean restrooms and not need to tote wipes and soap. Our tour also placed us in Jerusalem 24 hours before the Obama/McCain election, and vendors in both Jerusalem and Cairo shouted “Obama good!” and other similar acclamations. However, Itay and Nir had reservations about him and had hoped for McCain in order to have a continuation of current US policy towards Israel.

As far as the economy goes, Israel does get huge $3B/year handouts from the States. But considering that they have no natural resources, cannot export to their neighbors, frequently experience import sanctions, and are regularly disrupted by war, Israel is strong. (For example, the Yom Kippur War in 1973 cost Israel a year’s GDP.) Nir pointed out the building in Tel Aviv where 50% of the world’s diamonds are processed. Diamond cutting had been one of the Jews’ traditional skills but became more important as their wealth could escape persecution with them; a life’s savings stuffed into a pocket or handbag. Additionally, Itay told us that Israel has not been impacted by the financial crisis hitting England and the States.

El Al is a classy airline. Leaving Paris we had a nice breakfast including olives and feta cheese, and at the baggage claim in Tel Aviv, I was given a toilet bag almost the size of a suitcase to compensate my delayed luggage. Unpacking the leather bag at our Mediterranean beach hotel in Tel Aviv, I was thrilled to find lots of goodies, including a t-shirt (and boxer shorts which looked charming on me), a full-sized tube of toothpaste, as well as lots of other stuff. My friend and trip roommate Julie thought I was hilarious as I unpacked the bag like a Christmas present. I felt a bit better, too, when Julie told me that all the single women with the church group were also taken aside and searched before boarding their El Al flight from LA. When my flight landed into Tel Aviv, many of the passengers applauded, and Julie told me this also occurred on their flight from LA. I haven’t heard people applaud for a flight since I was a little girl – in the 70s sometime when bomb threats were common. I guess for the Jews, they must always be ready to defend and are always grateful when they don’t have to. We had joined them on another successful pilgrimage to their homeland.

From Russia with Love

2008-11-10T19:27:00.000-08:00

Upon check-in for St. Petersburg, the registrant threatened to only let me carry one suitcase, or two that were a total of 20kg. Of course my small one was already 19-something, and the larger 23 (paints and Christmas presents are heavy!). However, since he couldn’t find any baggage specification on my ticket, he let me go. Apparently, only one bag is allowed for European flights, and St. Petersburg is now part of Europe – although he did smile and shrug his shoulders when he told me that one…

The flight was great, especially from Paris to St. Petersburg since it was only half-full. We flew over Luxembourg and Hamburg, but I couldn’t tell exactly where they were. The coastline was so different from any other one I’ve flown over. On the approach, I saw old trains and miles of traffic of trucks on two main highways. I’m not describing this very well, but the scenes out my window just made me aware that I was headed into a different world than I’d ever experienced. I panicked a bit, being alone, but I’d done this sort of thing hundreds of times before. So what was my excuse when the passport control officer asked me where my Russian visa was? Um, I don’t know. I didn’t have one, and she asked where I was going. Uh, only to the city center for 6 days to see the sights – see, here’s my hotel name. I was escorted out of line and told to wait outside an office and began praying that this would work out. A woman came out with my passport, said they’d called immigration who said I had to return to Paris, and told me I’d be on the same plane that I had just flown in on. A bit incredulous, overwhelmed, tired, and confused, I wanted to cry but knew that wouldn’t have any effect on a female Russian immigration officer, so I tried to think my way out of this impending disaster. (I mean really! I had an opera ticket that night!) She was already booking me back to Paris, and I said I wanted to go to Nice – otherwise I’d be in Paris with all my luggage for 6 days and then have to make my way up to Amsterdam for my flight to Tel Aviv (which was a flight I wasn’t looking forward to as it landed in Tel Aviv at 2:30 am, 12 hours before my church group arrived). I’d have to figure out another way to get to Tel Aviv from Nice.

My “day” in St. Petersburg was a long one, but I had many things for which to be grateful. First, I was able to immediately get a flight back to Paris and Nice and not have to spend a night on the bench outside the Russian immigration office. Although I felt like an idiot – well, I was an idiot – everyone was very kind to me. The return flight to Paris was also not full, so I cowered to the very back to be alone with my embarrassment, but the flight attendants joked with me and finally made me smile. Upon landing, I was greeted by a French police officer who escorted me off the plane, through a few terminals, to the passport office, and finally through passport control before sending me on my way to Nice. And the flight attendant on that flight who welcomed me aboard was amazed that I spoke French well. All I’d asked was if he could throw my empty Perrier bottle in the trash… (I realize that I should also clarify that I’m not trying to boast about my French, but I’m always amazed when native speakers compliment me because I still honestly feel that I stumble through it – and contrary to popular belief, speaking French after a glass of red wine does not help at all!)

After picking me up at Jackie’s to go to the airport before 5am, I called Gill to see if I could get a ride home at 11pm that night. I was so grateful that she greeted me with a smile and a hug. The big question was (is) what the heck happened? I didn’t know I needed a visa for Russia. I’d had the gall to ask one of my Russian escorts if this had changed this year, since I was quite sure I’d checked for all visas back in March before starting my trip. Maybe because of the rough feelings against Russia after Georgia? No, no (stupid American) – a visa has been required for the past 50 years!

Gill had me stay with her family for the week I was there, since Jackie was off to England. I got to stay in one of their beautiful B&B suites and have their company. James & Paula’s daughter, only 9 months old and adorable, got to know me and made me miss my niece Allie less. Appearing at church after I’d “left” for St. Petersburg, my pastor told me to get the message – I suppose something along the lines of me staying in Cannes. Paula and Gill drove me around to do a few errands, too. Because of the scare of not being able to check 2 suitcases on the way to St. Petersburg, I sent a box home with all the “winter” clothes I’d brought, even though St. Petersburg only had a low of 40F! But I’d bought a winter coat for 2 euro at the flea market and wanted to keep it – yes, for those of you quick at math, it did cost more – much more – to send home than the purchase price, but I suppose it averages out to about a $40 coat, so it was worth it.

Meanwhile, my French bank account had been drained of the grand sum of 250 euro to pay my 10500 euro tax bill, and although Intelsat paid it quickly when I found out the account had been impounded, the French are still slower than the States at getting things done (it takes some of us longer than others to get this). So I still have the account, which will eventually have 250 euro in it again, and I guess sometime in the future, another pilgrimage to France will be in order.

St. Petersburg

Once Upon a Time in August....

2008-10-30T10:09:00.001-07:00

At the end of July I packed a little suitcase, paints included, to begin 6 ½ weeks of flying and train-ing it (“ghetto” as my little cousin calls it) all over Europe. Well, not all over – just Berlin, Hamburg, London, La Rochelle, Luxembourg, Heidelberg, and Valence – before returning to my wonderful apartment in La Roquette near Cannes. Every stop was to visit friends or my German relatives, and I found out how lovely it is to be homeless!

First was a flight to Berlin where I stayed 3 days. I was so excited to see my cousin Tine again and her family! They have two children, Benita (3 ½) and Tamilo (2 months). Sirko, Tine, and I enjoyed evenings together in their beautifully refurbished house about ½ hour outside Berlin. One eve Tine made a great salmon dinner, and the other, after a long day sightseeing in Berlin, we all walked to the local Italian restaurant which is Tine & Sirko’s favourite. Tine went with me to Berlin, and although I didn’t see some of the sights like the new American embassy that just opened on 4-July and the Brandenburg Tor, it was enough for me. My parents, brother, and I had the once-in-a-lifetime trip to Berlin in December 1989, a few weeks after the wall fell down. I remember that we went to the wall when it was already dark. Cars were lined up with headlights on as hundreds, maybe over a thousand; people clambered all over the wall with hammers and hand-picks. Many of us collected pieces, but many more just wanted the wall gone, letting their sadness and joy out as the cement chunks fell down. So the big sights in Berlin were less of an interest than seeing some of the galleries and museums – Berlin has become quite the art town, probably second only to London in Europe for emerging artists (I think Paris has more of the big-name dead artists, but maybe I’m wrong.) We were near the Dom, the cathedral, about noon when a ½ hour service is given every weekday, so we attended. The cool and beautiful interior was such a fantastic backdrop to the service, which I really enjoyed. About 4pm, after another sweltering day of sightseeing and dragging poor Tamilo with us, we met Sirko after work at the Pottsdammer Platz. Up until a few years ago it was completely vacant since it was “No Man’s Land”. It was an architect’s and city planner’s dream to have this much land in the centre of the city. And after more than 40 years, the subway was reopened, with a bit of updating, of course.

Yes, while another day in Berlin would have been nice, I had a much better invitation to understand what happened there. Saturday afternoon and evening was spent at Sirko’s mother’s birthday party. She owns a farm, about an hour north of Berlin, in what formerly was the DDR (East Germany). After cake and coffee hour, Sirko’s brother gave us a tour of their farm which consisted of about 5 farms pulled under one ownership – highly common as a result of Communism. On one farm they raised pigs, so we got to see and smell the different houses where the piglets were born all the way to where the big hogs were being fattened before going to market. Then we were driven over to the dairy. Outside, the buildings look completely run-down, but inside contain state-of-the-art technology to milk cows. Everything is automatic, from the gates to shutter the cows in and out of where they’re milked twice a day for about 20 minutes, to the disinfecting of the milking equipment to the milk storage – all automated! Someone comes once a day to make sure the plug to the whole place is still in the socket. Finally we drove out to see a small portion of the many fields they own – not that none of us had never seen fields before but because one of their 100k euro threshers had caught fire the day before and burned acres of fields. But the machinery itself was a work of art! The burned thresher was in itself not aesthetic enough to be considered sculpture, but I took many pictures of individual portions of it which made for some great abstracts.

The party was typically German, starting at 3pm with cake and coffee and lasting until midnight after several courses of dinner and dessert and drinks. Some of the guests were, well, interesting – very vociferous about their politics but defensive about East Germany. As bottles were emptied it became difficult to have a useful conversation. One of my distractions was to play with my camera, photographing the table from various angles, including not only the company, but the empty bottles and candles and champagne flutes and watermelon. I’d also taken Tamilo out in his buggy for a little stroll. The village was quiet, and on the road that led out into the fields, I walked to the last house. An old man was leaning on the gate watching not much, so I greeted him. After explaining that I was visiting and attending a birthday party, he wanted to know who. Well, I didn’t know Sirko’s Mom’s last name – don’t think I even remembered her first. He kept rattling off a list of names – I think he hadn’t finished when I slowly wandered back down the street. As I remarked from Sirko’s brother that everyone in the village knows everyone else, their families, business, cars, homes. I don’t know if that’s remnant of communism or just life in a small town where few leave and no one comes. The village population gets older and older, and the young people that stay behind are usually deadbeats. Young people with any ambition (whether to make money or marry someone who makes money) have moved to the cities, namely Berlin. It’s a lost generation – those who were into their 40s and 50s when communism fell. They still needed income and but weren’t mobile or adaptable to go where the little bit of money was. Anyway, that’s old history that everyone knows, but we (my German cousin and aunt) found it peculiar how defensive they are of the old system. First, I suppose, Sirko’s mother did fairly well by owning 50% of this entire co-op. But they long for a strong leader and get frustrated that democracy takes too long and does too little. They seem to forget that the materials weren’t available to redecorate and update the house as she’s done so beautifully. Sirko, who is quite a good piano player, was denied lessons while growing up because he wasn’t potential concert pianist material. Even though his mother could pay for lessons, they were prohibited. We all get defensive of our countries (or kids for that matter, or anything that reflects who we are, I suppose) to people from the outside who think they understand it all, but in many instances the amnesia was strong.

My Aunt Marianne and Uncle Lu (Ludwig) were invited to the mother-in-law’s party, so they drove me back to the little town (now a suburb) called Tostedt, located between Hamburg and Bremen. I lived with them here for 6 months when I was 14, and I’m being modest when I say it was the highlight of my teens (well, except maybe when Jason gave me my first kiss and I was wondering what to do with the bubblegum I was chewing). Happy to be back in Tostedt, I spent about 5 days with them, and when it comes to art, my aunt is the one to hang out with!

A day spent in Hamburg focused on the Rothko Retrospective in the Hamburger Kunsthalle. We rented the headphones since commentary helps much with abstract art. Rothko is known for the large paintings he did at the end of his life, large blocks of colour with undefined edges so they appear to float. I’ll see if I can find one to put in the photos, but it’s probably easier to just look him up on Wikipedia if you really care. What I found quite interesting was his progression leading up to his seminal work towards the end of his life. One of his first paintings is a rather poor portrait of a friend in front of a window. As explained by the commentary, his emphasis on the rectangular elements of the window already showed his style which would be refined in his later works. He continued with exploration of Biblical themes (he was a Russian Jew), as well as mythical beasts and human bodies painted quite abstractly, but usually against some rectangular structure or background. These themes mirrored much of Rothko’s outrage at what was happening to Jews during the period, in the 1940s, and the American government’s casual attitude towards it. Tante Marianne and I explored the two floors of the retrospective, and then went quickly through them again at the end. It is something I learned from her to really get a better idea of the artist’s message and progression and life and art. Finally, there was a film about Rothko, which we really didn’t plan to see, but, being lured by a pair of good seats near the front of the theatre after the film had begun, we were quite enthralled. The film was fantastic. Rothko’s dream was to be able to paint an entire room – fill it with his painting in order to communicate better. He’d been commissioned to essentially do this for the dining room of the Four Seasons in New York – in the 1950s or so. The paintings didn’t quite suit the commissioners, although they did hang for a little while (if I remember this correctly). Rothko decided to understand for himself, so he went for dinner there and quickly decided that anyone who paid that much for food didn’t deserve to see his paintings. I believe these ended up in St. Petersburg, but I’d have to go check. In any case, don’t go to the Four Seasons looking for Rothko. He became friends with the director of the Tate Museum in London. By now Rothko was becoming more depressed, but the director commissioned Rothko and the two collaborated on the project: 8 large paintings for a newly-created room in the Tate – created just for Rothko. With two on each wall, Rothko hung them one above the other instead of side-by-side. They had been made to be presented this way. The director was very excited and enjoyed the energy Rothko had for the project, but all good things eventually come to an end. The day the paintings were delivered to the Tate was the day Rothko was overcome by his depression and died by a medication overdose.

My aunt and I walked around the Alster, the lake in Hamburg’s city centre. The Kunsthalle, visible from where we had a beer and bratwurst on the water, spurred on our continuing conversation about art. After the four hours we spent in Rothko’s world, I was inspired again to paint. I don’t count myself to be any great sort of artist, but what I find wonderful is to be able to see an artist’s progression, to be reminded that they didn’t exit the womb painting floating rectangles or men in bowler hats or drip paintings or 3-dimensional forms visible from two. I related to her the great experience I had in New York’s MOCA last May. After wandering through the Kadinskys, Dalis, Wassilys, and Picassos, I entered a room with Pollock’s drip paintings prominent in front of me and on the wall to my right. To the left were some fabulous abstracts, very bold and strong, and I thought I knew who the artist was but couldn’t quite remember who. I finally checked the nameplate and was surprised that they were also Pollock’s, but ten years earlier than his iconic drip paintings. A week after the Rothko retrospective, my best friend Suzette and I went to the Tate Modern looking for the “Rothko Room” and his 8 paintings hung one on top of the other. While they’d already been removed for cleaning in preparation for the Tate’s upcoming retrospective, I was again fooled by an early Pollock that I didn’t attribute to him until looking at the nameplate. Duped twice! And inspired again to keep doing my art, even if it does just end up on every wall in my parents’ house and attic.

The following day, Tante Marianne and I went off in a different direction in search of art: a humble compound in the middle of the northern German forest, not too far from Tostedt. My poor Uncle Lu was dragged along on this trip, so another fun, four-hour festival of art wasn’t going to happen. The compound was created by Johann and Jutta Bossard ( www.bossard.de ) between 1880s to 1930s. The grounds included a cedar tree cathedral and a labyrinth, and the small museum, formerly the carriage house, had many of their paintings and sculptures. Large sculptures filled the garden leading to the main house as well as another tall building with bas-relief sculpture and interesting geometrical columns on the walls. I walked into it, into an empty, tall space. I’m trying to figure out how to write this... It was the Temple of Art: colourful mosaics on the floor, two-story high paintings with intricately woven stories, stained glass windows, painted glass sunlights, carved wooden beams, sculptured columns, and absolute silence. I sat on the one bench in the middle of this place and just stared. I would love to do this – like Rothko’s desire to paint a whole room, I wanted to build a chapel and paint walls and windows and roof tiles and floors.

I spent the next day walking in the woods from Tostedt to Sproetze, the village where my Opa & Oma used to live, to their house which my Aunt Kitty now enjoys. We took Aida the dog for a run through the fields while I still thought of my chapel. She showed me old photo albums of my mom and she and Marianne, Oma, and Opa. She surprised me with an album of Opa’s that had a black-and-white picture of my parents on the title page – from the year they met and were married in 1961. Opa had hand-written their love story, proudly announcing that my dad came from German grandparents, but outside of “ja” and “prost”, German failed him. The photo album was fabulous, with the engagement parties, wedding, and subsequent diverging directions as coloured photos filled with big smiles and LA palm trees that my mom sent back to him were mingled with formal and serious black-and-white photos of her family back “home”. It was lovely spending the day with Tante Kitty, in her green garden fit for a magazine, surrounded by stories of her and my mom and grandparents from 50 and 60 years ago, as well as life now and all that we have in common.

Before I leave Germany, I have to also write that I noticed German flags in front of a few houses on my aunt’s street. It isn’t unusual in the States, in fact un-patriotic to be without one, but somehow it struck me as odd in Germany, and I asked my aunt if it was just my imagination. No, since the 2006 World Cup held in Germany, German flags had become socially acceptable. In Hamburg we saw a stand selling everything from bags and purses and wallets to shirts and sweats and caps with the German black-gold-red or the Hamburger castle insignia. German pride had been revived by a football match. I asked Marianne if they had a national German day that was celebrated, like 4^th of July, Bastille Day, Cinco de Mayo, or Canada Day. Again, it was only in the last two years that the 3^rd of October was declared, marking the anniversary that East and West Germany were politically reunited. But what she subsequently told me was even more interesting. She, as well as many other Germans, wanted the 9^th of November to be the National Day. On the 9^th of November in 1918, the first democratic German government, the Weimar Republic, was elected into power. On the 9^th of November in 1938, Nazi SS officers executed an order to destroy all Jewish businesses, shattering glass storefronts, stealing merchandise, and breaking manufacturing machines. The shards of glass all over the streets on the following morning were cleaned up by the Jews and their insurance claims given to the Third Reich. Krystallnacht (“Crystal Night”, or the Night of Broken Glass) was not a bright spot in German history. But 51 years later, on the 9^th of November 1989, the Berlin Wall fell. It seems the 9^th of November somehow covers recent German history succinctly.

Aside from black-gold-red and significant dates in history, I asked my aunt about more current events, specifically about energy resources (OK, that was a non-sequiter for those of you asleep). But I was interested not only because of Russia flexing its muscles and control over energy which supplies much of Germany’s demand, but also because of the difference of opinion on nuclear energy from the French neighbours. From the exhibit in Geneva I’d learned that Germany was planning to shut down all its nuclear plants by 2020 – although they only have about 19, compared to France’s 53. But France’s population is very much pro-nuclear, citing accidents happening in any industry. In fact, solar panels, now seen on the rooftops of many German houses, are absolutely uneconomical in France as it would take at least 20 years to break even due to the low cost of electricity produced by their nuclear plants. Marianne said the bill to abandon nuclear would probably be overturned, as it has flip-flopped in the past. The important thing is to continue R&D on all alternative resources, from nuclear and wind to clean-burning coal. I asked her about Angela Merkel, and she said that she was quite well-liked in Germany. Yes, it wouldn’t suit Germans for her to be having a torrid affair with a Calvin Klein underwear model 15 years her junior.

I barely made my plane to London Lutton after a summer lightning storm felled a tree across the train tracks from Tostedt to Hamburg, but at midnight Suzette picked me up from the train in Croydon and was immediately mad at me that I was only staying 8 days. So we started catching up and ended up sitting in her car outside her house until 2am, already talking about our emotional trials with our lives. Best friends are wonderful – to not see each other for 2 years and immediately have one of those “I can’t tell anyone else this, but...” conversations.

Suzette has two boys who are very much, well, you know, boys. They are about 1 and 2 years old, but the size of 2 and 3 years old. Energy was the only requirement for babysitting them, playing with them, and disciplining them, but by the end of the 8 days, I was absolutely in love with Joshua and Haydon. I was also honoured and amazed that Suzette and Roland asked me to be Haydon’s godmother – and I accepted in a heartbeat! Anyway, Suzette and I took the boys out to parks, shopping, and a couple kid-friendly museums, then escaped without the boys one afternoon to the Tate Modern and one Saturday late night for girls’ night out and a few beers. We caught the Olympic Opening Ceremony in Beijing on TV and were quite impressed, as I suppose most of the world was. So we concluded that we’ll have to get tickets to London in 2012 – why not?

Suzette and her Mom threw me a party with her family and our mutual friends Andrew and Wei from Cannes, who now live in London. Suzette went all out on the food, as usual. We had enough for everyone to eat lunch and dinner, and then her Mom’s curry arrived. I told Sandra we had much too much food and asked why she brought the curry – “Well, it’s a party! You always bring curry to a party!”. So it was just a wonderful week with her family, and Suzette and I both enjoyed just doing the usual daily schedule together.

I probably wouldn’t have left London if my schedule was my own, but I’d promised to house-sit for family friends Larry & Sylvie near La Rochelle while they went to Turkey for vacation with their kids. The main characters in this plot were Ouragan the Horse (“ouragan” = hurricane in French), Calico the Donkey, Stella the English Setter, Cookie the Cat Who Loves Attention, and Frisky and Domino the Scaredy Cats. Oh, I forgot the Herd of bulls and cows with their calves who wandered down the road occasionally and always turned me into a Scaredy Cat since I had to walk by them with Stella, blocked by the canal on one side and the forest on the other. Anyway, that was about the only contact I had with any living creature for the two weeks, with the exception of the throngs of people at Cultura in La Rochelle when I bought a couple canvases and the nice lady at the local Spar market.

About 10 years ago (maybe a bit less), Larry bought an old farm house, actually the main house of a vineyard named Vina, after the vineyard near Stanford in California where the original owner had worked. (Did I get that right, Larry?) So Larry made friends with the guys at the French hardware store and passed French Bureaucracy 101 after many months to create this gorgeous house that he also uses occasionally as a bed & breakfast. The weather was lovely and cool for mid-August, the surrounding fields and forest as quiet as a cemetery, and the first week I didn’t do anything terribly remarkable. In the evenings I replenished the water buckets for Ouragan and Calico and gave them a few carrots or apples that had fallen from a tree nearby. I’ve never made friends so easily! Then Stella would take me out for a long walk along the canal and in the forest. She also likes to go swimming, so when I was worn out and my shoulder was throbbing from her tugging on her leash all the time, I’d let her jump in and swim as wide as the leash would let her. Once she surprised a bird in the tall grass near the path – it startled me as well, but Stella couldn’t keep her excitement contained. She chased the bird (a bit hard to do without wings) then ran back to me to tell me she’d found a bird! Then back around the circle to go after the bird, now long-gone, and returning to me to make sure I fully understood this incredible phenomenon. Anyway, Stella and I got used to each other, and as long as we took the same road without too much new to smell and drink and chase, she was manageable. By the end of the two weeks I think I even became quite fond of her and gave her a bath just before Larry & the family came home.

Behind the house is a fabulous pool, not to mention a Jacuzzi and sauna inside, so a swim or two or three became part of my daily routine as well. Oh, and I can’t forget the courgettes – no, the COURGETTES!! Larry had planted 6 zucchini plants which grew so fast that they produced Godzilla squash. They were about 15 inches long and 6 or 8 inches diameter and were actually quite frightening! Along with the squash were 8 or 10 tomato plants, so I also kept busy in the kitchen searching through Larry & Sylvie’s bookshelves of gourmet cookbooks for zucchini and tomato recipes. By the second week I’d recovered from Joshua and Haydon sufficiently to do some painting. A couple small ones were duds, but I finished the “Red Pirate Ship” which I lugged over to Luxembourg to Gabi’s and eventually gave to my other cousin Anja.

So that was my August, but I still hadn’t seen Anja or Gabi and their families nor my friends the Dawsons in Valence. Coming back to Luxembourg, with its pastel-coulored houses, made me happy. My cousin Gabi and her husband Arnold live in a fabulous house for their 6 kids (2 completed, 4 more in the planning phase) in a little village called Beyren. I used to fly to Lux often enough to have the miles for this around-the-world trip plus a few others when I worked for Hughes. During these business trips I made good friends, and being back in the city and countryside brought back many good memories from 10 years ago. A former colleague, Ray Sperber and his wife Lola invited me for dinner. Lola is also an artist, and Gabi and I were really impressed with her work and all the paintings she’s done.

Gabi’s children, Cornelia (2) and Nicolas (5 months), were so fun! Nicolas is a miniature Arnold, and Cornelia has a personality that fills up the room. We went to the aquarium, took walks along the Mosel (comparing ducks to swans to pigeons), walked to the playground (avoiding all the neighbourhood cats), coloured, played house, made banana-chocolate chip muffins, took silly pictures, and watched the backhoe in the yard tearing up the ground for Gabi & Arnold’s renovations. Most evenings Arnold, Gabi, and I enjoyed dinner and long conversations about the economy (before the crash) and anything else (families) that happened to sound interesting. Other evenings we had a quick dinner and went to the local pub and talked about the economy (before the crash) and anything else (beer) that happened to sound interesting.

I stayed over a week at Gabi’s, and on the weekend we were invited to Anja’s annual Garden Party. Anja, Gabi’s sister and another sweet cousin of mine, lives near Heidelberg with her husband Mathias and their sons Alexander, Benjamin, and Jonathan – all under the age of 5. Unfortunately I didn’t bring the California sunshine since it rained on their party for the first time since its inception. But the kids loved getting wet and muddy and the adults gathered the bratwurst and beer under the tent to tables lit with candles. Mathias works for SAP and many of the guests were colleagues, but by the end of the afternoon and late evening, everyone knew everyone else’s story. Gabi and her kids and I stayed an extra two days while Arnold returned to Lux for work. Aside from keeping the kids entertained and more late-night discussions of Germany’s history, us three girls played Sudoko addictively and laughed and had fun like we did when I lived with them as teenagers. Without kids, I don’t remark how much time has passed, but with them I see how much older I’ve gotten, but kids also have a funny way of keeping us young, too. They hold up our faults and bad habits like a mirror, and I’m still glad I don’t have to look into mine!

Before leaving Lux, I painted “Go Orange” for Gabi and Arnold in a manic two sleepless nights. But I was so happy to give it to them, and they seemed quite excited about it, too. It not only matched the decor, but Arnold is Dutch and reminding you of William of Orange should put the colour in the right context.

After a long train ride from Lux to Valence on a sweltering day, I was welcomed to Matt & Janet’s apartment by their two girls, Jessica & Valerie. Again, the last time I spent a weekend with them, the girls did my hair into pigtails – really quite hysterical. But now Jessica doesn’t think anything is funny because she’s a teenager now and it’s all so serious... but Valerie is still cute and funny and affectionate. But if you see the pics, they still have a great sense of humor.

I asked Janet to tell me again their story of being highly-paid engineers for GM, working in the States and in Lux, and then giving it up to move to Africa to be Christian missionaries when the girls were babies. I won’t write their personal story here, but it helped me to relax a little about “God’s BIG plan for my life”. Most people close to me (or anyone who’s managed to read most of my blog) see that I’m drawn to work out in the field for my faith. Evangelizing isn’t my strongpoint, but I figure I should develop it, or work in other areas in which I am stronger. But after all this travel and learning languages and meeting workers in different countries and cultures, I still don’t feel like I’m supposed to do something like that. Janet helped me see that God might be heading me in that direction, but He does it in His time and I can’t rush it, nor can I think that I’m “wasting” time.

Riding in the TGV along the Cote d’Azur back to Cannes, I felt the familiar tug in my heart that I was coming home. I don’t really know what that is all about because I am surprised that I still feel it. My life in France this year is very different than two years ago, but there’s still something here for me. Friends asked if I would be happy here, and I probably would, but not under the stressful circumstance of just packing up and moving without a reason (especially to do all the paperwork!). So anyway, I get to just live my life with a few mysteries and not figure it all out in advance – God probably doesn’t want my advice anyway.

My final three weeks in my apartment in La Roquette were a mix of everything. After my brother told me about the train wreck in Chatsworth, I kinda checked out for a week or so. I painted “111”, and once I got all those irritating feelings out of my over-sensitive system, I finalized the remaining paintings of the “My Sins” series. My former tutor Christele and I met a few more times, and my friend Pascale and I spent a day in Nice and at the Chagall museum. I wasn’t terribly impressed by the museum, since the paintings seem to be hung in a random order, but his stained glass windows and “The Bible Message” series of 10+ huge canvases definitely made an impression on us. Like deciphering the pictures on the sanctuary walls of the church in San Gimignano, I really enjoyed “reading” Chagall’s paintings for the historical Biblical scenes described.

Jackie’s boys, Michael and Robert, came downstairs to visit me quite a bit. A few nights I made them dinner and watched them while Jackie was out. Robert usually played games on my laptop or told me about his life in France while being “fidgety” as he calls it – the boy has a perfectly entertaining conversation while jumping around the room and being generally, well, wiggly! But he’s a fabulous football player and so seems to have enough energy to power a small village. Michael, much more calm, preferred to “just chat” while visiting rather than playing video games or watching TV. Actually, one night I let the boys paint with my oils, and after that Michael became quite the artist! First he just wanted to paint on paper, but a week or so later, I convinced him to try a small canvas. I taught him how to dilute the paints in alkyd and oil and mix them. A few days later, being bored by video games, he asked if he could paint again. I was out of small canvases, and so he chose one of the long ones I had left over (30x90cm). Previously he painted on the floor, but when I asked him where he wanted to paint, he pointed to my setup and said “there, like a real artist”. He mixed all the paints himself and didn’t need any advice or encouragement from me to paint a really incredible abstract. He was so un-self-conscious – when Robert asked him what he was going to paint, Michael just simply said he didn’t know. I’m sorry that I didn’t take a picture of his paintings, but I also noticed that after I’d made a big deal about his painting to Jackie and other friends, he didn’t ask to paint anymore. I broke my own rules. But I left him several brushes and paints and canvases, a knife and palette and mixing alkyd, so Jackie said she’d try to get him going again by asking him how the paints are mixed. Jackie’s great with the boys, and I miss them all terribly.

At least I know I can stay homeless with minimal rent, since everyone wanted me to stay longer, so that was nice. I’ll just keep flying around… I guess that “free spirit” description of me is accurate.

Election? What election?

2008-10-14T03:33:00.000-07:00

I recently (OK, 3 weeks ago) read my friend Jon’s blog. In one of the first entries he apologized for not writing for 2 days. So I guess I’m no longer in the League of Bloggers but in the Memoir Hall of Fame. I can provide all kinds of excuses, some true and some flimsy, but I’ve got enough to write without wasting time on trivialities and half-truths and crummy perspectives.

This is actually a commentary and less of a “what (and where) in the world is Laurie doing” episode. As of my last entry, I had returned from Geneva and the Refresh Retreat and was back in my apartment in La Rochelle, near Cannes, painting and reading and thinking about things, becoming very interested in reading what I could on French politics and the French view of America. I continued reading a book called “La fin de l’Empire” which I grabbed in Cultura (the French version of Barnes&Nobles, but with art supplies!) because my theory for the last few years has been that America’s empire is in decline, repeating the history of the fall of the Roman Empire. Yes, we are innovative and have done great things and advanced civilization in many ways that will continue to be used, but though we still use Roman inventions (numbers, books, mirrors, roads, indoor plumbing, the Coliseum – I mean, where would USC play football??), their society dribbled away in consumerism and “more”ness. Anyway, back to the book, I was thrilled to read it. The author writes that the American Empire is overextended, produces too much (how much can we buy, actually, so let’s market to the 3^rd World whose economies can’t digest it), and is faced with a crisis of legitimacy among the world’s nations and citizens. The first chapter is called “Route to Bagdad”, and I appreciated it because it traced the American government’s actions back to the beginning of Regan’s reign. I wasn’t really old enough to follow politics then and didn’t in later years because I was too busy with school and work, so this was something of a history textbook for me since more recently I’ve enjoyed reading and debating as a nice compliment to doing my art and travels.

Anyway, I was enthralled with this book and other articles I could find. My former French tutor came for a visit one afternoon and after catching up on the mundane of life began to talk politics for 3 ½ hours – in French! Both of us were quite impressed with my French, actually. However, in the “Fall of the American Empire”, my bookmark remains in the middle of chapter 2 because I finally saw that this was an American book, originally titled “Dilemmas of Domination: the Unmaking of the American Empire” by Walden Bello. It sounded like a good French name to me. With a new quest to seek out articles on America written by (real) French people I came across a Le Monde special magazine with “Les Américians” plastered on the front. By paying Cultura 5 euro, I could read articles that Le Monde had published over the last year or so, as well as a follow-up to an article that interviewed several “typical” Americans 4 years ago before the Bush-Kerry election. I liked best the article entitled “The World escapes the US” – as in “the American’s don’t have a clue”. (The following are basically excerpts, but translated by me and sometimes abridged.)

We will not be returning to a unipolar system where neither the power nor the legitimacy of the States and Western Europe is accepted by the rest of the world. This signifies two dangers currently in progression: anarchy and tyranny, either simultaneous or alone, will dominate this century, and neither the States nor Europe nor the grace of destiny, either simultaneously or singly, will be able to influence in any important way. The States have entered into a new phase, characterized by their humiliation in Iraq, of general loss of prestige and power, due also to the spectacular emergence of China and India on the economic scene and the reemergence of Russia as a menace to its neighbors but also indispensable to the West, however weak and unfriendly. In this crisis of American power and influence, the terms “unipolar” (or “unilateral”) and “super-power” have lost most of their validity. And what replaces them is neither the concert efforts of multiple powers (as Europe in the last century) nor the reign of multilateral institutions (dominated by promoting discourse such as the diplomatic approach by the French in the last years). Of course the unity of allies to dissuade and international institutions functioning to keep a minimum of rationalization and moderation in international affaires continue to be widely used, but their efforts are, at least, fragile and fragmented. Their mechanisms are constantly detoured, blocked, or submerged by the assembly of passions and myths, by the armed prophets and their fanatic or desperate disciples, or by uncontrolled cultural and social evolutions. China and Russia play a complex role in the balance. For the West, these two states are irreplaceable partners, but at the same time dangerous collaborators and potentially real or virtual adversaries. (my comment is that they, more specifically India and China, are also our suppliers, allowing us to buy ourselves to death) Geographic and cultural differences aside, the BRIC group (Brazil, Russia, India, China) is an emerging economic power which transcends the North-South polarity (The French usually use “South” to denote 2^nd and 3^rd World countries and economies.)

One of the most pre-occupying issues is basically the multiplication of civil wars, whether permanent, intermittent, or virtual, whether for religious, racial, political, or economic causes, that menace and incite by extension or contagion entire regions, such as East Asia, Mid-East, and the Cornice of Africa. This makes control by stronger, outside forces or international institutions an effort of Herculean proportions. Generally, the basic cause of all evolutions and political revolutions is the coincidence of two series of conflicts: technology vs. social and cultural norms, and modernization vs. tradition. These tensions, however, have been incredibly accelerated and heightened by the political and military actions of the West, above all the invasion of Iraq with its false justifications, atrocities, and attempted demonstration of power. The invasion has been compared to Napoleon’s invasion into Spain by its limited effects and often counter-productivity of military power.

The US has found itself, since 9-11 and Iraq, confronted by a world it cannot ignore, but cannot control, nor, apparently, understand. More troubling, for Americans, is the complexity and ambiguity of their relations with the emerging powers. It is impossible for Americans to simply categorize them as friends, enemies, or collaborators. The central difficulty is that the world has become, on one hand more asymmetric and heterogeneous in terms of perceptions and passions, and more symmetric and equal in terms of power. To begin to understand this situation, we must deal with incomplete antagonism and imperfect partnerships with an incomplete equality of power and imperfect reciprocity. (Got that?) The strong are not always strong enough to completely impose and protect the order and because egos and persistent oppressions and sometimes aggressions compound to make partnerships and objectives more complex or masked. It has now been proven that the superior technology which can deliver a spectacular military victory obtained in a few hours with few casualties has been rendered, if not useless, at least deceptive. So the West is left with a classic dilemma: adopt the methods of their enemies in the name of effectiveness and thereby rival their taste for suicide, brutality, and disregard for human life – either that or a slap on the wrists. (At first I thought this ridiculous until I realized that in Vietnam, soldiers had to fight as guerrillas because it was the enemy’s tactic.) General Rupert Smith is quoted that modern conflicts and confrontations are no longer about destroying an enemy, occupying their territory, or taking their resources. The objective of modern war is now to influence the will and allegiance of other people to one’s own – and this cannot be done in totality (my comment is that this can’t be done at all – most civil wars have roots in this kind of thinking even when some of the differences like culture are minimized). This is obviously seen in Iraq, but the difficulty of complexity also with Russia. In exchange for their support against Iranian nuclear armament, the West must abstain from interfering in relations with the Ukraine, Georgia, or even talking about human rights in Russia itself. (this article was published in summer 2007 before the recent aggression against Georgia and the West’s lack of interference)

As countries in the West, especially the States, influence other nations either by direct pressure, diplomatic compromise, or indirect navigation of the current cultural and social psychologies, they cannot exclude other countries or act in isolation. On the contrary, only reciprocity, however imperfect, and successes, however partial, between nations and cultures can have a chance to isolate the adversaries of tolerance and encourage transnational solidarity. It is this solidarity, at a time of increased nationality that will be the best chance for humanity.

(This is an excerpt from The American Interest by Pierre Hassner, born in 1933. He studied philosophy under Raymond Aron and is one of the most sought experts on international relations. He studied in Italy, the US, and Canada.)

Turning towards the American election, in the June 16, 2008 issue of Elle magazine, I read an article that French youth love Obama (although most of France does) – they wear sweatshirts and t-shirts with his name and face and “emblem”, replacing rock band shirts and sports jerseys. “If Obama wins, racism will be banished throughout the world!” says one high-school student. The article says:

The candidate speaks to all: white and black, but has captured the support not due to race but his vision. He has done what Colin Powell or Condoleezza Rice haven’t. Obama also addresses the immigration issue, a problem both France and the US face. French immigrants want to know what France can offer their children – they don’t mind working hard and putting up with some discrimination, but want their children well-integrated. For immigrants and their descendants, Obama is an incarnation of a fantasy. His cross-cultural roots also set an example for the people being asked if they’re French or Moroccan, Algerian, Indonesian, Haitian, etc. Obama underlines France’s incapacity to acknowledge its diversity, but they acknowledge that Obama’s predecessors: Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, and Mohammed Ali paved the way. This hasn’t happened here in France yet.

(There is still racism in France, sanctioned and even institutionalized – most obvious to me when I learned that pictures are still required when submitting a resume.) Other students Elle magazine interviewed are more pessimistic. They believe Obama will fall back in the ratings. While he’s new now (written in June), by November Americans will revert to supporting someone closer to their values: patriotism and closed-minded positions towards the Arab world. Most students believe McCain will win, malheureusement.

Another article in “Les Américians” commented that each of the presidential candidates (this was before Hillary bowed out) would disappoint everyone. McCain has proved himself to have strong character, but in the coming decade, his war record is not applicable. He doesn’t have the temperament nor the mentality for the new world order, aside from his vicious temper and quick-flip to calm. He’s not ideal for a head of state on the international stage. The author was most inclined to Hillary, excepting her fanfare about bombing Iran. But she’s a moot point now, anyway. Obama’s fierce campaign against Hillary will do him damage in the final run against McCain (although what I hear is that he’s ahead of McCain now – probably more to do with running mates than anything, though). Obama’s biggest proponent is probably his biggest handicap: the world over is looking to him, not just along racial lines but for an appropriate approach to the complex international stage. He brings so much hope with him that, if elected, the only place to go is down. With not just Americans awaiting his grand initiatives, he will not be able to satisfy everyone. While Obama is compared to George Washington and Abraham Lincoln and also heralded as the next JFK, the world unfortunately isn’t Kennedy’s world anymore. So just as Sarkozy was heralded as the most exciting leader in Europe and anti-establishment when he was elected in May 2007, but has disappointed most of France, so it will likely be Obama’s fall if elected.

Yoann, my friend in Geneva who is a former Alcatel colleague, gave me some of his perspectives on Sarkozy. First, he made a contract with his former wife to pretend their marriage was fine until 2 months after he was elected last May. They then divorced (Sarkozy’s second) and he quickly married Carla Bruni, after first showing her off to the world during a vacation to Egypt at Christmas-time. She, apparently, for all her high-breeding, is equivalent to a call girl. She has a son from her relationship with famous philosopher Raphaël Enthoven, but also happens to have slept with Enthoven’s father, Jean-Paul. (Do we even have famous philosophers in the US, let alone those who are publicly known and respected?) And she doesn’t even have the class to hush it up. During an interview to the magazine Figaro Madame in February 2007 she declared: “I am faithful — to myself! I am bored to death by monogamy.”

The first press conference of Sarkozy’s presidency addressed his love life. Bruni is a stepdaughter of an Italian tire magnate and classical composer, Alberto Bruni Tedeschi, who is married to her mother, Marisa Borini, a concert pianist. Carla Bruni is rich, grew up in France, is well-educated, and speaks three languages, so some think she’s good first lady material. I saw a TV programme that gave some details of their meeting. Sarkozy, from the right-wing, asked a close friend and political aide to find him someone with the qualifications of being left-wing and some sort of artist (the French venerate their culture and those who nurture it, be they artists, fashion designers, singers, writers, or philosophers). So a dinner party was arranged. Bruni, one of the guests, successfully wooed Sarkozy by strumming her guitar and singing a song for him after dinner. It would be such a cheesy story if it wasn’t in France.

The general consensus, both in France and in conservative nations like Egypt and India, where the royal bedmates visited, is that she doesn’t have the image of a first lady. Additionally, Sarkozy’s public affair with her removed the very traditional French boundary between a politician’s public and private life. Mitterand, for example, had a mistress for about 20 years, and although the press certainly knew about it, only for Mitterand’s funeral were photos of her and their teenage daughter published.

Aside from the sordid stories of her former relationships and attitude toward them, Yoann disgustedly told me that Sarkozy was caught texting Carla during meetings. So for those who don’t really care who he sleeps with or marries, Sarkozy brings down his ratings by publicly being in love with a woman rather than France. He is also perceived to be just looking out for himself and excels in self-marketing and manipulating the press. Newspapers loved making caustic comments about him, in typical French fashion. One favorite name was Presisdent Bling-Bling.

But while his self-promotion and the “Carla Effect” reduced Sarkozy’s popularity last year, so has his approach to reforms to improve France’s economy...

So I mentioned before about my 3 ½ hour French conversation with my former tutor, Christéle. Of course I wish I had written a few things down soon after, but there’s a general theme among my French friends, no matter what economic or social class. One of the first ways Sarkozy got the French in a frenzy was by increasing his salary while telling all of France they need to tighten their belts. In order to stimulate the economy (by getting the French to spend what they just lost in wage increases) was to allow the giant commercial corporations like Carrefour and Casino (Wal-Mart and Ralphs grocery store equivalents) to use their large purchasing power for reduced wholesale costs to pass on lower prices to the public, meanwhile undercutting small and medium-sized merchants. Since France is one of the least-franchised countries in the West and having small merchants (bakers, butchers, neighborhood brasseries) is a part of their culture. (For example, one theory regarding poor service in large department stores is that the French custom of saying “bon jour” on entering a business can’t be done in a large store. And if you don’t say bon jour – even if only to other customers if the proprietor isn’t within earshot – service can get nasty.) Sarkozy is also good buddies with many heads of big business. Aside from his son being married to the heiress of Darty (equivalent to Best Buy in the States), he and his family have been long-time friends with the head of Bouygues, a giant telecom company as well as infrastructure and construction, and several other businesses (equivalent to GE, I suppose). Many of the reforms he’s making to improve the economy are perceived to attack the middle-class while leaving benefits to big business – sounds familiar. Also the method in which he is changing the structure of France is to bombard them with reform before labor understands the full effects and can strike. His favorite trick is to reform one aspect of business or education, then reform an opposing group so that both are paralyzed to strike because they would be striking against each other. The perception of Christéle, as well as my friends Pascale and Thierry, is that Sarkozy tinkers with change, making tweaks in the system, but so frequently that the population can’t keep up and the long-term effect is masked – usually to the benefit of big money. Back in May or early June, I saw that one of the long-term newscasters was fired, and this made the headlines. I wasn’t quite sure why, but Christéle enlightened me that he’d irritated Sarkozy during his “welcome to the presidency of France” interview. This well-respected and well-known newscaster (someone like Tom Brokaw) always interviewed the new presidents and put some hard questions to them. Well, Sarkozy thought his image tarnished afterwards, so the newscaster was fired, based on him being too old and reducing ratings, of course. A “retrospective” of his work was broadcast, specifically excerpts of his interviews of Mitterand and Chirac who both diplomatically answered the same questions he posed to Sarkozy. Sarkozy also tampered with unemployment benefits – sacrilege for the French. Christéle said he’d changed the scale so that an unemployed worker is required to take a job providing 90% of his former salary or wage after 3 months, then 75% after 6 months, and something like 50-60% after a year (these are approximate, probably being distorted a bit both by Christéle’s telling me and my memory).

Anyway, that’s just a bit of what’s been going on in France, not to mention immigration continuing to be a big issue (Sarkozy wants the EU to have a united front on this), and all the adaptations France has to make as the EU strives to be more concrete. It’s amazing that France is working so hard with the EU with respect to its tradition of looking inwards and thinking their methods are the best (hmmm… sounds like another country I’ve lived in). Oh, one other fact I saw on the news recently is that France’s banking is in good health despite the crisis in the States that has become contagious to most of Europe and Asia. The banking expert on TV said commercial loans had increased by ~15% and personal loans by ~8% from last year. Their system somehow prohibits riding loans on loans on loans on equity. The downside, though again more of a cultural thing that the French are used to, is that the townhouse my friends Pascale and Thierry bought in 2006 has yet to be completed (the original date, however, was mid-2008, so it’s not incredibly behind schedule). The French appreciate things being slower in order to be of better quality, or simply contribute to a better quality of life.

So the French are disappointed in Sarkozy for one reason or another. I asked Yoann about the other candidate running against Sarkozy in last May’s elections. Yoann’s opinion of Ségolène Royal, a woman, was that she is not articulate at all. Following her speeches was like hunting for clues as to the point she was trying to make. Yoann actually abstained from voting, which surprised me, but sounds similar to the last two American presidential elections: choosing between two unqualified candidates.

Also, not particular to external American affairs but an influence on it, is an excerpt from “Screwtape Proposes a Toast”, written in 1959 by CS Lewis. (It was something of a short follow-up after he’d written the infamous “Screwtape Letters” 1942.) I suppose just by writing the excerpt in my blog forces me to admit what I believe, but Lewis does it in a much more eloquent and logical way than I could, so it speaks for itself.

Democracy is a name they venerate. … Democracy is properly the name of a political system, even a system of voting, and that … has only the most remote and tenuous connection … that all men are equal. … And of course it is connected with the political ideal that men should be equally treated. … As a result… the word Democracy … prompts a man to say I’m as good as you. [But] no man who says I’m as good as you believes it. He would not say it if he did. … and therefore resent every kind of superiority in others; denigrate it; wish its annihilation. Such a man presently suspects every mere difference of being a claim to superiority. No one must be different from himself in voice, clothes, manners, recreations, choice of food. … But now it is sanctioned – respectable, even laudable – by the incantatory use of the word democratic. Under the influence of this incantation those who are in any or every way inferior can labour more wholeheartedly and successfully than ever before to pull down everyone else to their own level. But that is not all. Under the same influence, those who come, or could come, nearer to a full humanity, actually draw back from it for fear of being undemocratic. People who would really wish to be – and are offered the Grace which would enable them to be – honest, chaste, or temperate, refuse it. To accept might make them Different, might offend again the Way of Life, take them out of Togetherness, impair their Integration with the Group. They might (horror of horrors!) become individuals. [Thus is produced] the vast, overall movement towards the discrediting, and finally the elimination, of every kind of human excellence – moral, cultural, social, or intellectual. … It is not pretty to notice how Democracy (in the incantatory sense) is now doing … the work that was once done by the most ancient Dictatorships, and by the same methods. … “Tyrants” allow no pre-eminence among subjects. Let no man live who is wiser, or better, or more famous, or even handsomer than the mass. Cut them all down to a level; all slaves, all nobodies. All equals.

It begins to work itself into their educational system. … The basic principle of the new education is to be that dunces and idlers must not be made to feel inferior to intelligent and industrious pupils. That would be “undemocratic”. These differences between the pupils – for they are obviously and nakedly individual differences – must be disguised. This can be done on various levels. At universities, examinations must be framed so that nearly all the students get good marks. Entrance examinations must be framed so that all, or nearly all, citizens can go to universities, whether they have any power ( or wish) to profit by higher education or not. At schools, the children who are too stupid or lazy to learn languages and mathematics and elementary science can be set to doing the things that children used to do in their spare time. … But all the time there must be no faintest hint that they are inferior to the children who are at work. Whatever nonsense they are engaged in must have – I believe the English already use the phrase – “parity of esteem”. … Children who are fit to proceed to a higher class may be artificially kept back because the others would get a trauma… by being left behind. … All incentives to learn and all penalties for not learning will vanish. The few who might want to learn will be prevented; who are they to overtop their fellows? And anyway the teachers … will be far too busy reassuring the dunces and patting them on the back to waste any time on real teaching.

A democracy does not want great men. … For “democracy” … leads to a nation without great men, a nation mainly of subliterates, morally flaccid from lack of discipline in youth, full of the cocksureness which flattery breeds on ignorance, and soft from lifelong pampering. … One Democracy was surprised lately when it found that Russia had got ahead of it in science. What a delicious specimen of human blindness! If the whole tendency of their society is opposed to every sort of excellence, why did they expect their scientists to excel?

For anyone who has read this far, aside from Ma, I have to admit that with all this “research”, I’m staring at the absentee ballot on my desk and wondering who to vote for…

Regarding Art

2008-10-13T08:30:00.000-07:00

I had a boyfriend once (yes, incredulous but true) who, when I would tell him I was doing my art, would jealously respond -- “Who’s Art?” As I was writing about my summer adventures I noticed that there was one storyline on politics, which I made a separate entry, and then another plot regarding art. Remember that great Harrison movie “Regarding Henry”? What follows is my exciting remake, “Regarding Art”:

This tale picks up in July. Aside from becoming a political and economic spectator, I was frantically painting in order to have my series mostly complete and ready to take to local galleries. I didn’t get as much done as I’d hoped, primarily due to the adversaries of doubt and negativity. Although I didn’t quite fall into one of my favorite holes entitled “I’m not really an artist” but did succumb to the slightly shallower “The gallerists will laugh at me!”. I think in my last blog entry in mid-July I wrote that I’d decided not to look for an exhibition space or gallery in France this year, but I decided to stick with my original agenda (I should know better than to make a commitment since I’ll always try to weasel out of it). The decision to not promote my art helped take the pressure off, especially since I was having trouble resolving 3 of my paintings – they were missing something that was escaping me. Normally I just put such paintings aside and whatever escaped me before eventually surfaces a year or two later. But when I decided to keep to my word, the pressure came back because I’m on a schedule!!! The engineer in me decided to take control and made quite a nice spreadsheet allocating so many hours to each painting to “get them finished” and crossed off the list. I found out that art doesn’t get made that way, but a lot of chocolate chip cookies do.

So at the end of July before heading off for 6 weeks of travel around Europe, I rented a car to throw some paintings in the back and peddle them at high-end galleries in a town nearby – St. Paul de Vence. The town, quaint and painterly, attracted many of the famous artists from the last century who lived out their lives on the Cote d’Azur. These artists – Picasso, Cezanne, Dufy, Leger, Matisse, Chagall, etc – would pay their room and board during a painting expedition for a quick sketch on canvas or a scribble (in Picasso’s case) on a napkin. So much art was deposited in inspiring St. Paul, and its heritage continues as it is THE place to buy art on the Cote d’Azur. Anyway, I rented the car in a complete state of terror, but needing to peddle my wares before going away to visit relatives if I were to hope for a show in September or October. I wasn’t feeling much like putting myself out there, and everything from driving a car (a stick-shift) around here (where I’ve never driven – didn’t have a car when I lived here prior), to going to the galleries (French gallerists are sure to be even more snobby than in New York), to updating my website (I needed to explain this “body of work” and do it in French) was overwhelming. While I’m really good at marketing, I now know why artists generally aren’t – aside from having the skills, we have to have the motivation and be in a mood to deal with rejection. I wanted to just not do this, partly because I didn’t feel prepared. Although I had some paintings in the car, I really needed to make a portfolio but hadn’t since few of the paintings were definitely done and the rest in flux or contemplation. So I asked friends and family to pray for me and that accountability alone kept me from playing hooky. Although the car rental was expensive, I’m grateful I had the money to get it. A friend from church gave me a ride to the Nice airport for the pick-up. The driving was really easy, and I enjoyed it. My Ma helped me translate my artist statement into French since I didn’t have the time. All the gallery staff were very nice and helpful, with lots of good conversations in French about art, and I made 3 gallery contacts that I was hoping would amount to something. A French artist in his mid-50s and inhabitant of St. Paul offered me coffee and a long chat about painting abstracts. He told me that painting good abstracts is more difficult than any other genre and that my paintings should “have balls”. He was running a gallery displaying his art and that of his friends – a co-op, I suppose, but one of the largest galleries there. We dissected his paintings and talked art philosophy for almost 2 hours, and I even convinced him to look at my website after he told me he didn’t use the internet. So I figured it was a successful day. I drove into Nice the following day, talked to one artist who was selling only his own art in a gallery, but really didn’t see much. St. Paul is really about it for art, and though my contacts didn’t work out, I’d been to neither St. Paul nor old-town Nice, so I got to do some sightseeing and just be a tourist as well.

So I’m now getting ready to remove the paintings from the stretcher bars and roll them up into my suitcase. I’ve posted them to my website – 11 in all. While I’m not sure a couple are resolved and completely finished, they are what they are for now. (Some are obviously overexposed due to a tug-of-war between my camera and a hyper English setter in which my camera underwent the hammer to be repaired – I’m not joking! It doesn’t like water pictures, which will limit my picture-taking in Australia and New Zealand but should get me through the trip. I plan to use a friend’s camera and improve the website pictures this week.) Eight paintings are in a new section on the website entitled “My Sins” which is the series I was promoting for an exhibition here. Their titles and the artist statement regarding them pretty much says it all, so I won’t rewrite it here. Three additional paintings are in the general abstract section of my website. Two I did while on the road in Germany and gave them to my cousins. One is called “Go Orange” which, aside from matching their decor, firmly endeared itself to my cousin’s Dutch husband. Just check out their bright orange football jerseys next time you watch a European match. The other is the “Red Pirate Ship” which I thought my other cousin with 3 boys would enjoy, and it also coincided with her decor.

The last painting is called “111”. The September day I returned back to my apartment near Cannes, I received an email from my brother about a train crash and that he was on the train after the one that crashed and was OK. After reading the news reports about the head-on collision in Chatsworth, I went into some sort of emotional shock. My brother has a side business (www.lapassenger.com ) informing commuters on the Metrolink trains in LA of train delays and cancellations – a big help to commuters who may need to drive to work to be on time. My family and I have helped him promote it from time to time, and because of it he’s quite close to the passenger community – mostly commuters. Being a Friday and all, he might have taken that earlier train if the workload was light. Plus he always sits in the first car behind the engine which was where the most casualties occurred. I was addicted to the news reports, which was dumb because I always ended up crying, especially when some of the interviews my brother gave were featured. I still think I’m adopted because the rest of my family seemed to get over it quickly, but I just had a very unexplainable hard time with it for a week or two. So I have to paint these over-sensitive, illogical, unpredictable feelings, and what came out was this painting. I read a lot of meaning into it, which I wrote to my brother, but now I think I’ll just let it stand on its own.

How Laurie got her groove back...

2008-07-15T01:38:00.001-07:00

Today France celebrates July 14^thin honor of the day Laurie first arrived in Cannes. (Although I think something else happened in 1789, too.) It was 4 years ago that I flew into Nice, and I remember that my heart gave a little jump when the city first came into view from the airplane. I already had a premonition that I’d love this place. And since I arrived in an American presidential election year, I’m here again during the same season. So, as before, although my French is a bit better and I have more friends, I’m getting many questions about the elections as well as a review of Sarkozy’s first year in office. There’s lots to write on politics, so I’ll postpone that to the next blog.

Yesterday was the 10^th (big 1-0!) birthday of Jackie’s twin boys, Michael and Robert. We’d spent Saturday going to 3 shopping centers to find a new video game they wanted – without luck. But in the process I ended up, in the vein of expanding my cultural knowledge, buying the Lego Indiana Jones game. I mean, really! Put Legos and Harrison Ford together, and I can’t resist! Of course I couldn’t even figure out how to get off the first platform, so today the three of us spent the afternoon in my studio with the AC on reliving Harrison’s adventures. The boys were also very curious about my paintings, asking me which ones I’d done, making sure again that I’d done them all, and then saying they liked them and I should be an artist. Gotta love that! And speaking of anniversaries, I was also quite thrilled on Friday to witness the 1000^th episode of Plus Belle la Vie!

In France, the 21^st of June, summer solstice, is celebrated with the Fete du Music. In every tiny town to the large cities musicians and singers are performing throughout the day and late into the night. It might just be a little bandstand in the park with an audience of 20 to huge electronica dance fests at the Bastille in Paris (which, of course is televised so the country folk can participate). It’s a fun day to be out, especially as it fell on a Saturday this year (although people seemed to come and go from Alcatel to see friends’ performances when the Fete fell during the week in earlier years). All along the Croisette in Cannes small bands or single musicians played for most of the day, until big-name concerts took over the evening.

However, the longest day of the year found me speeding through Provence on the fast train to Grenoble, the gateway to the French Alps. I’ll just say the scenery, from Provencal coastline and wine country to Alpine chalets and mountains and wildflowers was enthralling – and leave it at that. From Grenoble, I took a bus up to Bourg d’Oisans, with its world-class skiing and hiking and climbing, as well as en route of the Tour de France which is happening now. Finally, I arrived at Camp des Cimes, composed of several structures which used to be an entire village. Anyway, I’m getting too much into detail, but I was there to assist with art classes for a retreat called “Refresh” for international Christian workers. The director was my pastor Daniel, along with his wife Lori, from Ventura, CA. Several other friends were on staff as well, and many more to be made. I received such a warm welcome from my friends, as well as the guests, and was able to give classes for teens and adults for 4 days, and one full day with the kids.

I was incredibly impressed and grateful as I got to know the guests, about 18 families. Most were of US, Canadian, or Australian origin but working far from home in Turkey, Jordan, Kuwait, Tajikistan, Afghanistan, India, Iran, France, Germany, and Switzerland. Many are teachers or consultants advising on building projects or environmental conservation and improved agricultural methods. Some run Christian camps or do administrative work for their respective organizations, but many must have a “regular” job since Christianity is illegal. I was captivated by the idea of one gentleman who worked in Iran. He has worked in refugee camps, and he said that among them is a bond much stronger than nationalism. They feel more kinship and will stand up for other refugees much more than another countryman who is not a refugee. Since the number of refugees is greater than most countries’ populations, he wanted to get some good lawyers together to form a “virtual nation” composed of refugees. They would become citizens, with passports and rights, of this new nation. Wow…

I was also most impressed by the teens. One 14-year-old I got to know was with her family in Kuwait and now in Jordan. When they’ve taken furlough back to the States, it’s so difficult to fit in. American culture and entertainment has little appeal for those who have lived in the 3^rd World and even less understanding of it. When talking about Kuwait, her friends told her she was bragging. The teens and many of the kids from 5-10 were so mature and generous. They were protective of younger siblings, and in turn, the younger ones had strong attachments to the older ones. I didn’t witness any squabbling between siblings, or really even between any of the kids. They worked so well together, and their world view had bigger issues to digest than one kid taking away a toy. They were also thrilled to be outside – to have beautiful green trees and grass and safety to play freely. With Euro 2008 in the final games, football games were always the favorite, especially when the dads came out to participate.

For me personally, I just felt useful as I haven’t in a long time. I could listen to some of their fears and future decisions and concerns about their kids. I could pray with them. I could watch the kids, encourage them in their art, and help them find Mom when they were terrified they’d never see her again. I could get a peek into their lives; feel grateful for mine, for peace, for having a Bible and a church. My first day there I said yes to an invitation to teach math and science for a year in Turkey where those subjects are no longer in the high school curriculum due to lack of teachers. We’ll see how God makes that happen!

The weekend after the retreat found me in Geneva where my friend Yoann and his wife Camille live. He used to work at Alcatel and just began a job at a private bank in Geneva. They were out of town for the weekend, but still encouraged me to come and use their apartment. Yoann and I had a soda Friday afternoon near his work and got to catch up on the last few years and big career changes for us both. I also had to ask about the currency, since they aren’t on the euro. I’d thought the Swiss Franc was about equal to the USD, but the cash machine only gave me withdrawal options of 200 or 1000+! He said I was right about the exchange rate. Forget the little $20 we get out of our ATMs – imagine if the minimum was $200!

Yoann’s apartment was a 5-minute walk to the old city center, and just a bit more to the lake. The weekend was quite hot, and both days I slept in very late – to recover from Refresh, ironically! The evenings were most enjoyable, but the museums closed at 5pm, so I really couldn’t hide from going out in the heat.

Geneva was the starting point of the Reformation, voted on in 1536, with Jean Calvin spearheading the movement. While others worked elsewhere, like John Knox in Scotland and Martin Luther in Germany, Geneva became central because it took in so many Protestant refugees from France, the Netherlands, and Italy during the 8 subsequent religious wars, so there was a concentration of Protestants here. Next door to the Reformation Museum in the old city is the Cathedral of St. Peter. Originally Catholic, the Protestants removed all the ornamentation, save the stained glass and the raised pulpit, and white washed all the gilt (good pun, eh?) from the walls, ceilings, and columns. Once Bibles were available to all literate citizens thanks to the new printing press and translations of the Bible from Latin into French, German, etc, the church services needed to function as Bible application, rather than the Catholic translation. So the pulpit in Protestant churches was physically moved to the center of the church (putting emphasis on the sermon) and replacing the altar (blasphemous as it replaced Christ on the cross and Mary). In one of the parks, the Reformation Wall was constructed in 1909 to mark Calvin’s 400^th birthday. It was pretty cool. Aside from the four main statues of Calvin, Knox, Farel, and Beze, were inscriptions in different languages of some of the Reformation texts, as well as the Lord’s Prayer.

Genevans love bikes, parks, the water, philosophy, roses, high-end sports cars, precision watches, and lots of money. While I didn’t partake of the latter few (although I felt like a high roller with 200F to spend in a weekend!), the parks around the lake were wonderful evening walks. Saturday, after the Reformation museum and sitting in the cool sanctuary of St. Pete’s, I walked along the left bank. The first thing to see is the flower clock which was decorated with a football (soccer ball) for the main clock, flanked by Switzerland’s flag and Turkey’s, since that was the last game for Switzerland and the last game to be played in Geneva for Euro 2008. Walking through the English garden to the lake, the soccer ball is now floating beside the big water jet in the middle of the lake. The Jet d’Eau was originally a security valve for a hydraulic factory (it’s 140m high and flowing at 124mph!), but has become a symbol of Geneva. Further down the shore I came to the kids’ beach (Baby Plage) with all kinds of fun stuff to climb and swing – see the pictures. I got rather jealous! I took a rest (as is the custom) in the La Grange Park in the shade among the 12,000 rose bushes. Quite lovely!

Sunday I walked the right bank to my final destination of the UN and Red Cross museum. After seeing Les Grottes, some really funky Gaudi-like apartments built in the 80s, and Palais Wilson, named after US President Wilson which now houses the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, the right bank becomes a continuity of different parks (one called Parc Mon-Repos, meaning “my rest”). The parks were former lake-side private properties. Only one family was willing to sell to the League of Nations (formed in 1920), and the mansion became the Palais. Other manors have become museums – one was the natural history museum. Anyway, I finally arrived at the UN building, second only to New York. In front is the 1997 artwork by Berset called the Broken Chair. One of the four legs is broken, and it was installed for the movement to prohibit and eliminate anti-personnel mines. It’s 12m high and quite impressive – see the pictures.

Behind the UN is the Red Cross and Red Crescent Museum. I didn’t know about the Red Crescent, but most Middle Eastern and Russian nations use the Red Crescent symbol. As for the museum, it is quite impressive – very creative imagery. Henri Dunant is considered the founder – he was impressed to write the proposal for the Red Cross after witnessing the Battle of Salferino on 24^th June 1859 in which the French drove the Austrians out of northern Italy. With tremendous losses, he saw the wounded lying without help, sometimes for days. In the museum, they presented the battle with a “slide show” series of paintings depicting the Italian countryside, then regiments marching, renderings of commanders’ uniforms, and ultimately, battle – all set to emotionally appropriate music without a word being spoken. At the end, instead of exiting the dark theater by the side door where I came in, the screen itself began to split in two. Gradually, a blinding-white room, lit by skylights, was revealed. In one corner is a life-size all-white statue, by George Segal, of Henri Dunant writing his proposal on his desk. His proposal led to the first Geneva Convention in 1863, convened with the help of two generals and two doctors, to establish the Red Cross. I was really impressed by the emotional impact of the dark theater opening to the white room. Additionally, the work of the Red Cross in the First World War was on display: 7 million file cards documenting 2 million prisoners held in camps of all the involved nations. These were the real cards, still used by historians and POW descendants, stacked in 10-foot-high cases and maybe 30 cases? I felt like I was walking through a miniature Manhattan. One display showed the grey card of Captain Charles de Gaulle verifying his capture, then a white card with a request from a relative for his location, as well as other cards documenting his rank and battalion, plus camp transfers. Excel would have been nice.

After the First World War, the Red Cross was well-established and had lots of supplies and financial support. Since that was believed to be the last war, RC’s charter was updated to include helping victims of natural disasters. During the Second World War, the RC couldn’t help concentration camp prisoners since the charter didn’t extend to civilians – and the prisoners were considered criminals by Hitler’s decree. This was changed in 1946, but in 1944-5, a German general allowed RC workers into the camps as long as they stayed in the camps until the end of the war. Amazingly, volunteers went and saved many from Hitler’s last extermination order. At this point, I came to the anti-mine displays, but was a bit drained emotionally. However, there was a temporary exhibit called “In-decision – the Nuclear Debate”. It was quite one-sided against nuclear production, as it’s hard to determine whether a country is using nuclear power for energy or weapons. France owns 59 of the 414 reactors in the world, and Germany has 19 which are to be entirely shut down by 2021. 80% of France’s electricity is supplied by nuclear power. But the exhibit was photography of the various stages of nuclear’s development since the 1930s. Pictures of Oppenheimer and other scientists and generals working on the Manhattan Project were followed by those of test sites in the deserts of New Mexico, Nevada, and eastern Washington State. One series was of photos of objects found in Hiroshima and Nagasaki – personal items like a melted briefcase, twisted eyeglasses, and a school uniform found in a tree without the child’s body ever being found. Another series documented survivors and deformed children of survivors. Finally, a look at the present-day surroundings of Cherynobl showed many farmers and villagers who still live within the 30-km zone because they have no place else to go.

The bus ride back to Yoann’s was a good 20 minutes, and I realized how far I’d walked. The final game of Euro 2008 between Germany and Spain was held that Sunday evening, helping me re-integrate into the present-day. When Yoann came home about midnight from his weekend, I told him Germany had lost and he responded “Good!”. Of course he apologized once he found out I’m half German, but obviously national animosities continue for generations. Then of course, we talked politics until after 1am…

Back at the homefront in little La Roquette sur Siagne, near Cannes, the weather had finally decided it was summer. I became a hermit again in my air-conditioned studio, determined to get a few pieces resolved and finished! Frustrated and discouraged one day, I was reflecting that the piece I liked the best was the one I did after hearing of Michel’s death. It’s nothing that I’d use professionally; it’s not well-balanced and a little raw, but life is like that. So I did include it in the pictures for the blog. But I enjoyed – well, not the right word really – painting that one the best. Knowing it would be private, I just did whatever I needed to. In the others, I always had my goal of exhibiting in a gallery here, and they’re stinted in a way. So I’ve decided that I’m probably not going to have a show, unless something just happens. Also, I started taking intermediate pictures of the paintings and thought that would be interesting. After the first three, I recognized a theme to produce a “body of work”, which gallerists like. My theme became various “emotional states” for lack of a better description, which I’ve experienced. They’re things like Pride, Indecision, Jealousy, Confusion, Love, Joy, Comfort, Defiance. The first three I think are finished, so I included them here.

Also, thank-you so much to all of you giving me condolences for Michel’s death. I really appreciate it.

Refresh Retreat 2008

Geneva Weekend

Studio & Paintings

All fun & games until someone gets hurt.

2008-06-04T02:30:00.001-07:00

“Baby, you can’t stop the rain” – yes, I do listen to Cher, even while painting. Hey, we’re only as sick as our secrets. It’s a Wednesday or Thursday in the last week of May, raining almost everyday since I returned from Italy, no end in sight – and I love it! It rained all last night again with me as audience, sleeping in to hear it continue this morning. Now I’m watching the rain from my breakfast table as I drink my second American-sized morning coffee. My routine has become that I do whatever I want in the morning – read, go for a walk (in the mud), make my music playlist for the afternoon – and paint about 4 hours in the afternoon (always finishing in time for a shower and dinner before Plus Belle la Vie!). So this morning, staring out at the rain, my coffees finished, I begin to read. It feels foreign. Putting the book down, I stare out at my framed little world and the rain trying to make up its mind – sometimes a light drizzle, then suddenly a heavy pour. I love the rain, especially when I’m not needing to go out. It slows me down, makes me pay attention to nature, and rearranges my priorities: grocery shopping’s no good when the bags come home wet, laundry won’t dry so why bother… Rain encourages, sanctions actually, procrastination. So watching the rain lift a bit brings me down. But then another crescendo of downpour lifts my spirits again. I wonder how the clouds do this: a sprinkle instantly followed by a river from the sky. My friend Tim, the cloud expert, could probably tell me. And the sound of the rain isn’t a constant beat, but unpredictable, which quiets my thinking (except regarding the science of clouds) and feels like a meditation. A little bird has now joined the concert – soprano, I think. How fun to be lulled by the rain – although two nights ago the thunder boomed overhead almost all night. I finally got up in the dark, only to suddenly be walking on glass shards. The mirror installed in the bathroom had been shaken off the wall by the thunder! Good riddance – don’t need it anyway…

Now it’s Wednesday. I know this because it’s three days after Sunday, the day I learned Michel had died. He was a good friend, a close friend. Almost a boyfriend. He lived up on the hills behind my old apartment in Mandelieu – the hills I look at now outside my window. He was my ride to church every Thursday evening for the group study there. He only spoke French, but always spoke to me with his big smile as if I understood him. His construction company justified the big green truck he drove (probably the only pick-up truck in Cannes), dog in back, and sometimes his 4-year-old daughter riding to church with us. I remember his truck always smelled funny, like a bachelor, I suppose. Instead of taking the main route to church, he drove through the little winding streets over the hills above Cannes with an explanation that he’d love to have a Porsche. After a late day at work and being hungry (the French always provide food at a gathering, but they inevitably don’t start until close to 8pm), I easily got car-sick. I did try, once, to ask him if he could take the direct route, not over the mountains. I can’t imagine what convoluted meaning came out of that request, but his response was simply “Parlez Francais, Laurie! Parlez Francais!” as we headed up into the mountains.

I often saw his truck in Cannes – especially nice when I was waiting for the bus home – or would bump into him in the street. It seemed I saw him accidentally more than anyone else. One rainy evening as I was talking to a real estate agent about an available storefront for lease near the train station (I wanted to open up a gallery and art workshop space at one point), Michel happened to walk by. He spoke with the agent a while, then over coffee explained how the commercial leasing worked. A few months before my departure from France, we happened to meet downtown. He’d been going to a different church for about a year, so we stopped and had a coffee. He was amazed at my French! I could speak French, now! And now I was leaving…? We stayed in touch those last few months, never quite dating, but almost. He and his daughter came to my good-bye party, and I thought of staying. But the movers were on their way to Mandelieu, and I had commitments in the States.

So looking up at the hills where he lived, I thought that I must call him when I get my cell phone. I’d lost his number but emailed a mutual friend to get it. She wanted to wait to see me before telling me the news. He’d died, only four months after I’d left. Murdered, actually. Pushed off a balcony. I think this is what grieves me the most. An illness, car accident, something that happens in life; but murder doesn’t happen in my little white suburbia world. He’d taken a job to remodel a restaurant in, of all places, Morocco. He was going to walk away from it over a money squabble, which I could see him doing. He ended up not going anywhere.

It’s been harder and harder to do my painting. I cry a lot. I think of people who tell me that artists do their best work under difficult circumstances. My work is a mess. But I’ll let it be a mess until something good comes out of it. Oh, and the rain has finally stopped.

...et encore une fois!

2008-05-25T04:41:00.001-07:00

…and one more time! I’m back in France, and I’m so happy! The first day here my heart was so excited to be in my old grocery store where everything’s French and overpriced. Last Sunday was my first to go back to my church, Cornerstone, and I actually started crying when I saw the pastor’s wife and many other friends – I was home. I got to take the bus for the first time again, and the bus driver immediately began to joke around with me. I feel so comfortable here.

The original plan was for me to stay with my friends Gilll & Mark, as they’ve remodeled their house into a bed & breakfast, but Gill found me a great apartment, newly built, beneath the home of her friend Jackie. My next door neighbors in another apartment are Rick, an American who was in my Bible study, and his new wife Carole. My apartment has minimal furniture and a huge living room, which suits me perfectly as my art studio. Jackie took me to buy canvases from a really cheap art store (wow, they exist in Europe??), and I set up my studio on Tuesday and have been painting ever since! It’s quiet here with gorgeous views and a bus stop just down the road. Again, this was exactly what I’d had in mind way back in January when I started thinking about this trip. Amazing what happens with just a few thoughts and prayers…

Jackie was so sweet to get me a working TV, and I know my former French tutor Christele would be happy that I’m faithfully watching it. I had so much fun the first evening, seeing the same weather and news people – silly, I suppose, but again I was thrilled to be home. And then Plus Belle la Vie was on, and truly my Life is More Beautiful! It is my favorite French show, a ½ hour evening soap opera set in Marseilles. I started watching it because it had subtitles available and I could learn more useful French than by watching drama series (important words like “pregnant” and “affair”). So then I was hooked, and I was happy to see that not too much has changed. The Blonde Bombshell who was kidnapped by a Columbian drug lord who became the love of her life two years ago is now lesbian – although I haven’t figured out if it’s just to get back at her father for something or other, since he’s the Marseillian mafia boss equivalent (MBE). Of course then he goes to the Devastatingly Gorgeous Architect with the blue eyes whom the Blonde Bombshell blackmailed into marrying her (before the Columbian, if I remember correctly). The MBE dad bribes the Devastatingly Gorgeous Architect with the blue eyes to seduce the Blonde Bombshell and convert her back to heterosexuality. And I won’t bother with the Debonair Police Chief who was just framed for assault by his son’s real father in order to get back at his mother who’s now living with the Debonair Police Chief who was himself previously murdered, wanted for murder, and the savior of the town when a contagious epidemic broke out… Good stuff! Better than going down to the Festival de Cannes which has been ongoing since my arrival here. I have been watching it on the news, entertainment shows, and a favorite French talk show that broadcasts from a set right on the beach in Cannes. Most of the talk has been about the rain (it always rains during the Festival – wonder why?) and how it’s harder and harder for regular people, even the French, to gain access to the movie features and the red carpet – even the paparazzi are having to pull rank to get into parties and near the red carpet. The stars are getting bigger, and more American. Brad & Angelina, pregnant with twins (hasn’t she been pregnant with twins for 3 years?), showed up. Puff Daddy (who is now just P. Daddy) has made quite a splash and an a** of himself. He walks down the red carpet with a bodyguard, shows off his big sunglasses and equally big ego on the popular talk show, then kisses the hand of the big-time gorgeous snotty French actress who joins the show later while even his sunglasses can’t disguise the thoughts in his head. But for me it’s all good. I get to watch all this, plus a Richard Gere movie and House (yes, House has immigrated to France!) until midnight – all in the name of learning French!

So now as I type, I’m watching Toulouse lose the Rugby World Cup to Munster and the rain coming down on the lemon tree outside. The views from my apartment are so provincial, so I took a few pictures to show you (in addition to some pictures of Mark & Gill’s kids and grandkids – just because they’re so cute and make me miss my niece!). The paintings will take awhile before I’ll post those, but I’ve already gotten some gallery leads. Time to get working again, and I’m thrilled!

France

At the table, one does not age. (Italy, 11-17 May)

2008-05-25T04:41:00.000-07:00

My friends Tim, Jon, Krys, and Randi, Poggi the Cat, and I definitely enjoyed testing out this Italian adage. I flew from Morocco into Nice, then two days later took 5 trains into the heart of Tuscany – a little town called San Gimignano on the train line between Sienna and Florence. Actually, San G isn’t on the train line but is about 15 minutes from the Poggibonsi station. Those of us coming by train all had difficulty getting our tickets since Tim and Jon couldn’t decide how to spell Poggibonsi – it changed with each email we received. Once we’d arrived, the proper spelling and pronunciation were practiced, but we finally had to name the cat Poggi (pronounced Puji) and sing songs about her in order to remember. I’ll let the rest of the gang recall their own favorites, but mine was written for the Flinstone’s song. Our Italian didn’t improve much beyond that.

The wonderful villa Rosa dei Venti is about five miles out of San G in Saint Andrea. We each had our own rooms – suites really – except Jon who was gatekeeper of the washing machine. The first evening, the caretaker, Graciella (a beautiful name – I kept thinking of grazzi, which is thank-you, and grace when we saw her) brought us a 4-course real homemade Italian meal as a welcome. Jon & Tim had already found the Coop (the omni-present supermarket in every town) and stocked up with wine and breakfast stuff. [As a side note on breakfast, don’t bother. Whatever they call bakeries in Italy really aren’t, and if the bread you buy isn’t stale, it will be by the time you get it home. Skip breakfast and eat more pasta.] Aside from the pizza (my favorite was pumpkin & truffle cream with mozzarella cheese) and the pasta (several favorites here, usually either including garlic, basil, fresh seafood, or truffles) and the wild boar dishes, the chianti was wonderful. I’d never been a fan of chianti, but that’s probably due to my last bottle being cheap and I was, um, 19. I ended up bringing 3 bottles of the chianti local to San G back to France (as if I couldn’t get a great 3 or 4 euro wine here!).

It was cloudy and cool, sometimes rainy and cold, most of the week, though the guys did take advantage of a few warm-enough afternoons to sit by the pool. When we weren’t out on the town, Jon fixed us a few wonderful meals. I don’t usually eat pizza and pasta – just not my thing – but even the dishes Jon made with Coop ingredients were so much better than anything in the States. And getting an in-house chef with the price of the villa was fabulous!

Monday was a sleep-in morning, though by 11:30 they were about to bang on my door. We spent the day in San Gimignano, a tiny little medieval town perched on a mountain boasting 7000 inhabitants. (Did I get that right, Jon?) It is really a tourist town now, I suppose because it is so picturesque, but fun nonetheless. I enjoyed deciphering the wall murals inside the church which depicted most of the major Biblical stories. The tower, something like 5 or 6 stories up, gave us the opportunity to say “I can almost see my house from here!” but gave incredible views of the village roofs and green Tuscan hills. Then there was shopping! I really didn’t want to shop after Morocco, but looking at all the products was fun in itself. I also stayed amused by photographing kids and others (like a priest) eating gelato, as well as rewarding myself with a cappuccino every few hours. My other obsession became the Italian men. No, not in that way, exactly, but just the way they wear clothes, especially all things pink! I saw an entire soccer (football) team wearing solid pink jerseys, as well as a cycling team! In a high-end shop were displayed button-down shirts splashed with bright purple and pink flowers, and another with lace down the front. They were very classy, and I told Tim he’d look great wearing them at the office. He didn’t agree.

Tuesday was a rainy day spent in Sienna. Jon, aside from being our chef, was also our architectural and history expert, so we were educated as to why certain buildings were famous and how to know which buildings had excellent facades and which ones were crap. Aside from getting a really cool pair of Geox shoes (think silver Keds and multiply the price by 10), seeing the Duomo (where I bought a 500-piece puzzle of a Renaissance painting to put together when I get artists’ block), and having dinner at a small local restaurant (with incredible dishes of the now famous truffle pasta and wild boar), the highlight of Sienna was the Red Hat Man. Jon, Tim, and I happened to see him soon after lunch – a man pulling out a squirt bottle to spray water on people’s heads so they thought they’d been given a pigeon present. As we watched, however, his talent became evident. He approached women of all ages and races to get a kiss, others for a bite of their gelato. As couples looked at the menus in front of the restaurants, he would take away the menu and begin to look at it himself, or he would use a giant make-up brush to tickle the ear of the man, or attach a leash to his back-pack, or even stick a measuring stick between his legs (unbeknownst to him!) and, after getting an accurate measurement, give him a thumbs-up! Tim and I decided we needed to be a part of the drama, not just spectators, so we walked by him, pointing up at the buildings and acting like tourists. As we passed, I leaned over and gave him a big kiss on the cheek (although for a second as he saw me coming, I thought things might go very, very wrong). Apparently he gave the restaurant crowd a big thumbs-up, so I did get a moment in the spotlight, then we got pictures together. Tim, Jon, and I were so entertained that we brought Krys and Randi back to the same restaurant later in the day to watch him! Check out the pictures…

Wednesday was basically relaxing – taking walks to look for the donkeys that the guest book insisted exist, going into San G for lunch and a bit of shopping (and Tim was the group’s sole representative to the Torture Museums), and returning later to watch the nightlife. Since Wednesday mass isn’t too well-attended, there wasn’t much.

Thursday was Big Day in Florence. We took the train in, then split up since we all had different agendas. I’d been 3 days in Florence in 2001 with my brother and cousin, and although this trip was much cooler and less crowded, there wasn’t much I felt I needed to still see – except the Uffizi Museum. Good thing I had all day since it takes at least an hour to get in (more than 2 in the summer!) and is on par with the Prado in Madrid and the Hermitage in St. Petersburg (the tour book also includes the Louvre, but I don’t think it compares). The museum itself certainly isn’t as big as the Hermitage or the Louvre, but like those museums, what is incredible is the amount of artwork held, not necessarily displayed since there’s not enough room. That being said, only one floor of the Uffizi was open due to installation of a new exhibition, but it sufficed. I spent three hours admiring the bright colours and flow of fabric, the gold and gilt, and the precision portraits of incredible Renaissance painters. I saw Botticelli’s Venus and Spring as well as smaller paintings – I loved the round ones he did! The room containing Reubens was closed unfortunately, as Reubens is my favorite, though I did get to see two huge (something like 30x20 feet – and gilt-framed!) paintings done by him (or at least his workshop). Overload finally hit, and decided I would love to go to the Duomo and just sit in there for a while. I had about 2 hours before I met the group for the train back to Poggi (“His name was Poggi, Poggi-bonsi!”). Unfortunately, Thursday mass in Florence is well-attended and the Duomo closed at 4:30. I thought I might be able to find another quiet church, but as I headed down the street, a good-looking guy with sunglasses started talking to me. Why me?? I even wore my Moroccan jallaba to hide under! Well, you guessed it, the guy recognized my jallaba and happened to be… Moroccan. So we walked around Florence and talked about America (mostly politics) and Morocco (mostly religion). He asked me where I got all my crazy ideas about how things get done in Morocco and what life is like there, so let me just say now that none of my observations or even statistics should be considered absolute fact. This isn’t a Lonely Planet travel guide, but hopefully is a bit more entertaining….

Luckily the group had planned to catch the train and have dinner back in Poggi, Poggibonsi, she’s a cat from an Italian fam-i-ly!! (sorry, it’s all coming back to me now). I was able to ditch the Moroccan without exchanging rings.

Krys and Randi left early Friday, so Jon, Tim, and I drove out to the coast to look at the beautiful green Mediterranean under a cloudy sky. We had a wonderful fish lunch at a nice place right on the beach, then of course back to San G in the evening to see if Friday night mass is well-attended. Definitely more activity than mid-week, but it would’ve been great anyway since it was our last evening in Tuscany. Besides, sitting around a table in Italy prevents aging...

Italy

Morocco Tour Part 3: Rollie, safi!

2008-05-25T04:40:00.000-07:00

“Safi” in Arabic means enough, or OK, or stop – derived from the French “ca suffit” (it’s sufficient). Of all the words on my 3 pages of Arabic phrases, this was most useful. It meant I was full, the taxi should stop, and irritating men should leave me alone, among other things.

I counted down the kilometers to Fes, about a 5 hour drive, and was finally able to ditch Driss, my over-attentive driver. Tired and not wanting to leave my very nice hotel room, I decided though, that a little walk and search for a light dinner was in order. Just across the street is the Fes medina (old city), with streets only wide enough for a few people. Horses, loaded mules, carts, and motorcycles all wove through the constant pedestrian traffic. I was surprised to find mostly Moroccans doing their day-to-day shopping, and not too many tourists. Wearing sunglasses in the shadowed paths helped avoid unwanted eye contact or haggling by shopkeepers with a glance at their wares that spilled out onto the street. Children, just out of school, ran through the alleys yelling out to friends; old matriarchs shopped for spices, nuts, fruit, and whatever else was needed for the next day’s lunch. As carts and mules came through, everyone took a step into a store or flattened themselves against a wall. Most storekeepers would cry out to attract attention. They often began with English to me, then would switch to French. The Arabic comments I was glad to not understand. Daunted, I just kept walking and began to turn into quieter, narrower and darker side streets to get away. I passed several groups of boys who began to tell me “it’s closed” as I walked by. I ignored them but realized I hadn’t seen any women or girls for a few streets and was wondering if I was coming upon a red-light or prostitution district, or maybe some Turkish-like baths where only men were permitted. A boy of about 10 finally got me to slow down. He asked if I was looking for the big medina door, and I conceded that I could probably use a guide to get me out. He spoke French well and was very sweet, telling me his name, some restaurant suggestions, asking my name, where I was from, and “non monsieur?”. The older boys followed, trying to get me to go with them, but I stuck with this little one. Approaching the medina door, I gave him $3, which made his day. However, passing through, I realized it was the wrong exit and I was terribly lost! Two hours later I returned to my room with a few cherries and a bit of bread, and pulled out the walnuts Rachid’s mother gave me in Imlil. I was getting tired of eating alone.

Even with 12 hours of sleep I wasn’t much in the mood to venture out into Fes again the next day. I missed Rachid – someone that I could just follow around and who’d make me feel comfortable with the Arabic swirling around me. The hotel didn’t have a simple map of the medina, but I did still want to do a bit more shopping: I was interested in finding a little dress I saw another tourist wearing, possibly buying a simple ring, trying for another pair of shoes, and getting henna done on my hands or feet. Dennis & Judy had given me the number of an American artist in Fes, Jeff, and his wife Nina. I was too overwhelmed the night before to get a calling card and figured it would be rude to call them with only one afternoon left in Fes to meet them. John, who’d arranged my Moroccan adventures, was in an office just down the street and had invited me to come in once I made it to Fes. John was great and gave me a medina map and train times back to Casa for the next day. Casually mentioning that he’d heard I’m an artist, he then pointed to another guy who’d just walked in the office. “He’s an artist as well.” No phone card necessary! Jeff invited me over to his house for dinner with his family that evening!

In the medina, feeling more lighthearted, I bought some wonderful hand-tooled leather shoes for $15 in a boutique that wasn’t pushy, then saw the dress I was interested in. “80 dh” the young tailor told me. “50” I countered. “70”. “60” and I gave him a big smile. He conceded, had to go next door to get change, then invited me into the little shop to sit with him and his older brother. Asking me if I wanted some “Moroccan whiskey”, he left the shop for 10 minutes and returned with an extremely hot glass filled with mint leaves and tea. Watching them sew elaborate trim on small white suits for boys to wear on special occasions to the Mosque, I was fascinated that all this was still done by hand and how quickly they worked. I saw a beautiful ring on his finger and complimented him on it. He pointed to his brother and said it was from him, then took it off and put it on my finger (right hand!) and said it was now a gift to me. (Jeff later told me that Moroccan culture stipulates that a compliment on anything tangible: jewelry, clothes, items in the house, etc, was to be given to the person making the compliment – I felt like an idiot taking from someone who had so little compared to me.) Soon they closed up for lunch and invited me. We’d already established, between my pathetic Arabic and their meager French, that I wasn’t married and neither was the younger one. As we walked through the twisting little side streets to their house, he took my hand but put a finger to his lips to tell me to be quiet about it.

After a wonderful hot lunch, the tailors were returning to the store but encouraged me to stay with the women. Of all the days to leave my Arabic notes in the hotel! I was introduced to the older tailor’s wife, their sister, the sister-in-law, the grandma, other relatives, and several young children, mostly girls. They, too, quickly established my single status, and grandma said I was very pretty and would be married soon. They pulled out the wedding album of the tailor to help establish family titles and ask about my family. Having quite a bit of trouble pronouncing my name, “Rollie” was the best they could do. Finally I threw my hands up and told them simply “Fatima”. They couldn’t stop laughing! I’m still not sure if this was because I’d renamed myself or that I was the farthest thing from Mohammed’s daughter that they’d ever encountered. Anyway, the afternoon was filled with laughing, as well as an offer to do henna. Needing to leave to meet Jeff and Nina for dinner, I established that I’d come to the store (I could never find the house on my own) the next morning to do henna, then they were going to prepare a special lunch of couscous for me – even if it wasn’t Friday! Returning to the hotel that evening, I laughed. I’d been given everything I wanted: the dress, a ring, shoes, henna, Moroccan company, and not having to eat anymore meals alone.

I ended up sitting in the tailors’ store the following morning, watching them work and the rest of the world go by outside in the medina. The younger was very interested in me and kept mentioning us getting married. I laughed and finally caved in to telling him we could be engaged just for the day. He persisted, even though I said it was ridiculous. I told him I’m 35 and he replied that he was 23 but we were still within the accepted ages for marriage. I thought he was so sweet so I took Jeff & Nina up on their offer to stay over (they knew I’d never escape the family by 4 to catch the train to Casa) to go out for a few hours with the young tailor. I hadn’t been out in any city in the evenings, except little Imlil with Rachid, and I was looking forward to the escort. So the “marriage” conversation continued with me telling him that my father would be upset if I stayed in Morocco (actually, I think I would literally kill my father with the news that I was marrying a 23-year-old Moroccan tailor) and finally asking him what we would do after we got married. “Well, I’ll work in the store and you can stay home, cook, and maybe do your painting if you want.” I lied and said I wasn’t a good cook, but again he wasn’t phased: he’d eat lunch in the medina… What about visiting America? (I was thinking he could make big bucks in Beverly Hills hand-tailoring suits.) He had no interest in leaving Morocco.

The couscous was fabulous as was the afternoon spent with the women watching videos of the marriages. “Are Moroccan or American weddings more beautiful?”, my hostesses wanted to know. Well, the obvious (and true) answer was Moroccan! The tailor’s wife had 6 different wedding dresses and 3 different tiaras to wear for the 4-day ceremony – and this for a low-income family! My Arabic cheat sheets had been bolstered by a few phrases Jeff gave me the night before (I wanted to be clear about my travel schedule of returning to Casa then off to France). The older tailor’s wife did beautiful henna on my hands and feet, then they served tea and the cookies I’d brought them as a little last-minute gift. The sister came in later in the afternoon and presented me with a beautiful jalaba (the caftans they wear) of green and white and orange. I just couldn’t keep up with the gifts they gave me, but I think I also made their week by being there the two afternoons. By evening, we took lots of pictures which I promised to send them. I felt so sad saying good-bye. The tradition is to kiss once on the left cheek and twice on the right, but more if you were really going to miss the person. Grandma gave me four kisses.

After work and getting my luggage, my date and I grabbed a taxi to Jeff & Nina’s. We weren’t communicating well about the evening’s plans, but I figured Jeff could do a bit of translating before we went out. They hit it off and began a long conversation in Arabic while I phoned Dennis & Judy about my change in travel plans. Hanging up the phone and returning to the animated conversation, Jeff stopped and looked at me before beginning to translate. I knew immediately. I really was engaged.

I’d done everything wrong! While many marriages in Morocco are no longer arranged by the parents, dating isn’t customary. Once a young couple establishes mutual interest, marriage is assumed. By sitting in the tailor’s shop and paying attention to him, I was sending the message that we could get married – hence the conversation we’d had all morning. Jeff also found out he had big plans for the evening. Instead of us walking around Fes a bit, grabbing a coffee or beer and maybe a bit of food, he was going to take me to his parent’s house. I could ask them anything I wanted: establish his good character, that he was going to take care of me, and whatever else one discusses in these meetings. I told Jeff, who was still interpreting all this with the superb Arabic he’d learned in only a year, that I’d already met his mother and had spent two days with his family. Then Jeff found out that the older tailor was “like a brother” and in fact wasn’t related to him at all! I had Jeff tell him I was Christian – no problem; he’d still marry me. He even was going to give up smoking if that was a deciding factor. He continued to plead his case to Jeff as if he were my father. Meanwhile, I was stunned.

Jeff finally walked him out. Nina and I talked about the whole situation, as women like to do, while she made me a little dinner. I couldn’t believe that I’d been so stupid and culturally inept. I felt terrible for the whole mess and could see that he was really upset. Jeff took a picture of us before he left, and comparing it to the ones I took of him that morning in the shop showed how serious and disappointed he was. Getting ready for bed, I still felt like I was in a parallel universe, that this was some weird dream, that it was a big joke. And that night, for the first time since I’d arrived in Morocco, it rained.

Fes

Morocco Tour Part 2: On the Road of 1000 Kasbahs - and 1000 husbands.

2008-05-25T04:29:00.001-07:00

My first morning in the desert, after a five-hour drive at sunset over the High Atlas Mountains the previous evening, found me at the Kasbah Ait Benhaddou. It was the largest of the Kasbahs and one of the most well-preserved until an earthquake around 1958 crushed half of it. The remainder, however, was quite impressive, being on a hilltop surrounded by the reddish desert mountains overlooking a river and large oasis. This river and most others near the ancient Kasbahs are dry, even this early in the year. The rain has been scarce recently, and the snow pack in the Atlas which feeds the rivers has become smaller. The Kasbah Ait Benhaddou had originally been built by Berbers but was taken by force by a powerful warlord. The movie “Gladiator” and a few others (most of you know how Hollywood-inept I am) were filmed here – in fact Morocco has a large movie industry and several studios that I saw later down the road. Although the movie studios that filmed here at Ait Benhaddou put a lot of effort into set-building and improving the area for the movie backdrop, they took every scrap home with them – much to the chagrin of the Moroccans who would have appreciated it to bolster tourist interest.

That’s about it for the history lesson, though my driver Driss (short for Idriss, as in Moulay Idriss, the Mecca of Morocco) talked about Moroccan culture. Like everyone else I’d met in Morocco, one of his first questions regarded my marital status. His response, again like all the other Moroccans, was “not yet!” It was irritating.

We drove on an hour to Ourzazarte, and I took a quick tour of another Kasbah, again having the most fun with interesting and abstract photography. The day’s drive would last another 3 hours, taking us past many more Kasbahs (only one had been renovated into a hotel, although there wasn’t much out there to stay for) and oases. We did happen to come upon the Rose Festival in a small village and stopped to be a part of the fun (well, I don’t know that I really contributed, but I got lots of photos of the fun!). All kinds of pink rose products are sold, including pink rose wreaths to wear on the head or around the neck (like a Hawaiian lei). I wish I’d been quick enough to take a picture of a family I saw all wearing the roses, including the men! While Driss gathered a bagful of rose stuff in one of the shops, I shot my camera at every interesting group walking by. This is a big event here, and everyone dresses up in their finest. The clothes represent the tribe of origin, and it seemed like the nomads had the most elaborate. In the city center, bleachers had been set up in a circle (men on one side, women on the other), and various tribes entertained with music or plays of folklore. I watched for a bit but was too foreign. I enjoyed the costumes, though, and watching the kids – like excited kids anywhere when there’s a 4-day festival with ice-cream and stuffed animal toys!

Back on route, on the Road of 1000 Kasbahs as it’s known, I enjoyed being quiet and watching the desert pass by. Most interesting were the distant mountains which had curving and wavy layers due to their formation by lava flow. Sometimes the layers were wavy and others contrasted by being straight, but at an angle to the flat desert. Unfortunately I couldn’t capture these well in pictures, but they were obviously similar to the lines in my paintings, so my fascination was justified.

Driss wanted to know what I was thinking, which really wasn’t much of anything as road trips and engaging scenery tend to quiet my brain. He told me I’d quickly get old by thinking so much, so I told him I already was an old lady at heart – which is true! Unfortunately this comment was followed by a long conversation about the status of my heart. He asked if it was broken, and I said yes: a little piece of my heart has been left in many places around the world. But has it been hurt, he wanted to know. Is it open, and if so, was there room for him in it? And I’m thinking, why didn’t I wear a ring??? Now, being a rocket scientist doesn’t automatically mean I’m smart, contrary to popular opinion, and I demonstrated this magnificently when I tried to get Driss to drop the subject by saying “yah, maybe” and returning to watching the scenery. “Lehamdolah!” he yelled. “Praise God!” (or more specifically, Allah).

Now he immediately asked me if and what I believed about God, now that I was a potential wife. So this led into an interesting discussion on Islam and Christianity, much heavier, though, on Islam. First he gave me a new name: Fatima. Apparently most first-born Muslim daughters are named this, since it was Mohammed’s daughter’s name. Most first-born sons are named… you guessed it – Mohammed. Then Driss informed me of the five things every Muslim must do: praying 5 times a day, giving 2.5% income, worshipping at the mosque on Fridays, observing the atonement month of Ramadan, and making pilgrimage to Mecca. Of course, if there wasn’t enough money to make the pilgrimage, that could be waived, or a pilgrimage to Moulay Idriss would be a sufficient substitute. We compared the Qur’an to the Bible. Apparently I would “feel something in my heart” when I read the Qur’an and begin to have an overwhelming love for people I wouldn’t normally. (Too bad he didn’t have one in the car.) I told him that I already get that from the Bible. But the Bible’s been changed! See, the Qur’an was written by Mohammed what he heard from Allah, and no word has ever been changed. Well, the Bible differs factually in something like 10 places between the thousands of copies found in the original Hebrew. Plus, both the Old and New Testaments are historically and geographically accurate and most archeologists use it for reference on excavations of ancient civilizations. I told him I’d taken a few classes with professors where I’d learned some of this, which appealed to me intellectually and solidified my faith – it wasn’t just based on “feeling”. He told me that he knew professors of the Qur’an who could tell me things that he couldn’t explain himself and my heart would just resonate with what they say. OK, but heck, why can’t I write a book and say it’s divine revelation from God and I am His prophet and have everyone make a pilgrimage to LA? (Well, a lot of people already do that, so that’s not asking for much.) I asked Driss: if something happened out in the middle of the desert between two men, one giving his side of the story and the other not saying anything but four independent witnesses corroborating his side of the story, who would you believe? I never really got an answer to that one, although I’m sure Driss immediately discounted it since I’m just a girl. Most of my arguments weren’t really heard anyway, or were interrupted, so I gave up, but was happy to have avoided being hit on anymore.

My hotel for the evening was in the heart of the Gorge Todra Tinghir. I don’t know much officially about it, like how high, etc, but it was awesome! The river supplies a 14-km oasis, and until I was there, I never realized that an oasis looks pretty much like a rain forest. The vegetation is very dense and tall, and the backdrop of the sheer red desert mountains is fabulous! I hadn’t eaten lunch and wanted a little something to keep me for the 3 hours until dinner. Only the carts near the river had anything, but really only cookies and soda at 3x the normal price. I asked the front desk why the electricity in my room wasn’t working, since it had only a few minutes before when Driss dropped off my luggage (with a request to think tonight if there was room in my heart for him). “Oh, the electricity will come on at 5:30” the receptionist replied. “Meanwhile, sit down and have some tea with me!” I just went and got my book and headed out. I wandered down the road along the river, finally getting to the beginning of the oasis and end of the gorge. I was looking for a quiet place to read by the river, away from the begging children and staring men, but the nicer spots had trash from everyone else who’d sat there. Some children in the river, however, were really sweet and practiced a few greetings in French, and I tossed back my 4 or so phrases in Arabic, which made them smile. I walked back near the hotel, passing a man selling rides on a horse and an old woman and baby wrapped in traditional garb wanting money for a picture. Some young men were beating a tambourine and singing an upbeat spiritual song that stuck in my head for days. I’d tired of being a tourist and taking pictures and decided to just join the mostly Moroccan tourists and relax on the opposite side of the river with my book. I took off my shoes to cross the river, lifted my long skirt to keep from getting wet, and as I navigated the rocks, looked up to see a Moroccan woman taking a picture of me! We smiled at each other, both understanding the irony of it. I enjoyed watching the scene, and a little boy of about 4 years came over to see what I was reading. “Bon jour” he ventured. He didn’t know much more French than that, so I began digging in my backpack for my Arabic notes. He gave me a kiss on the cheek, and I laughed. He was adorable! So his name is Elias, but we didn’t have much further intellectual conversation before he kissed me again. I enjoyed his company but couldn’t help thinking that Moroccan men are trained early…

By 5:30 the electricity wasn’t on, so I took a shower as it quickly became dark. At least I had an excuse for not putting on make-up for my big night on the hotel veranda. I brought my book and asked for tea, which was a measly cup instead of a pot as was normally served. The wind was kicking up, it was almost dark, and I had a headache from being so hungry. It was the receptionist who’d brought me the tea, not the waiter, so I gave him my sob story that I hadn’t eaten since 9am and he promptly brought me out another cup of tea, a basket of bread, and a huge plate of black olives and sliced tomatoes!! It’s nice to be able to sweet-talk my way into something good for a change.

Most of the hotel guests were out on the dark patio now, holding their drinks so they wouldn’t blow away. About 8pm the electricity came on to loud and appreciative shouts from all the tourists. I headed for the restaurant, barely able to keep my skirt from blowing up and away – although the Frenchmen at the next table kindly told me not to worry about it. Dinner was wonderful – tagine again, which I’d eat any day – and I enjoyed watching the other tourist groups and intermittently reading my book. As I was about done, the receptionist asked me if I wanted to have tea out on the veranda, with him. Well, OK. (Well, OK, how stupid am I?) I figured I’d at least get some interesting information out of this situation, since writing this blog has falsely given me the impetus of an undercover reporter. I forgot the poor guy’s name, but he had a university degree and enjoyed learning languages. And yet, here he was working as a receptionist in a hotel at the bottom of a gorge. Like Judy had told me, the middle-class and poor of Morocco have a lot of faith in the current king, and he confirmed that, though he said the progress is very slow. Anyway, I finally said I needed to get some sleep (hey, it was already 10pm!), and he told me I should really look at the stars from the 3^rd floor terrace – the view is much improved by being 50 or so feet closer to them…

The next morning I received a kiss on the cheek from the receptionist and a kiss on the hand from Driss. As we drove off, he launched into an inquisition about why I was hiding my eyes from him behind my sunglasses. Well, the sun’s out! Besides, keep your eyes on the road! And we’re not even talking about my heart today – it’s not awake this early. After a half hour I was really pissed off and told him to drop it, which he finally did. I received a call from Dennis and Judy on Driss’ cell phone and desperately hinted that I was going crazy. It was nice to hear from them.

We drove on, and as more boys by the side of the road showed roses and fossils for sale, as well as photo opportunities as they were dressed in traditional caftans and head wraps of shepherds, I was presented again with their desperate situation. Most others had given up, and I saw many kids and teenagers, mostly boys, sitting at the side of the road or kicking around a ball as we passed what looked like ghost towns. They really didn’t have anywhere to go or anything to do. At noon, we pulled off the highway into a hotel parking lot and met the 4x4 driver for a ride out into the desert. Although I thought I’d be returning to this hotel, Driss pulled my bag out and put it in the 4x4. I had separated my cool-weather mountain clothes into a separate bag, and Driss said I wouldn’t need anything warm. I was happy to be sitting in the back seat, away from Driss, though he did manage a pat on my knee and informing the 4x4 driver that I was his little “la-la”. I’m really glad I haven’t a clue what that means. It was a fun drive, and I loved the feeling of being out in the middle of nowhere with very few people knowing where to find me. I guess that’s the “free spirit” in me – not necessarily good, but a fact. In the distance I saw huge sand dunes. After about a half-hour drive, we pulled up to a hotel, where Driss, the 4x4 driver, and I sat by the pool and had tea (although I was expecting lunch, but I was getting the impression lunch just wasn’t going to happen much on this trip). Three good-looking young women in bikinis were in and out of the pool, and sitting with these guys, I felt very uncomfortable and decided no matter how hot, I wasn’t going swimming. I went inside to read, but felt unwanted. The hotel guys were chatting and smoking in the reception area, and I tried to disappear into the elaborate sofa cushions and wallpaper in one corner. Driss found me to give me his cell, and Judy was on the line! I was almost crying by this point. I had earlier realized that I was scheduled to do the overnight camel trek out into the sand dunes from this hotel, but all my pairs of pants were in my other bag! Driss had graciously offered me to wear his, and I was ready to call MedJet with some emergency medical condition to get myself helicoptered out of there.

I hadn’t particularly wanted to ride a camel, considering I’d fallen off a horse last summer, had a thrilling ride on an elephant in Thailand, and had almost been thrown off a cliff on a mule a few days ago. But off I went in Driss’ pants into the golden sand dunes, accompanied by Mustafah and 4 other tourists. The ride out was fun, although I realized that I’d left my camera battery in the hotel since I kept trying to recharge it in hotels that didn’t have electricity or outlets. At sunset we dismounted, and I quickly befriended an Australian couple who’d recently moved to London. Jody was taking lots of pictures and said she’d email them to me. Another hour on we arrived at the tents for our overnight stay. Mustafah and his crew had set out a table and cushions, served us tea and peanuts, and prepared a fabulous dinner. I really enjoyed the company and conversation with the others. They were all seeing the same sights I was but in reverse order, so they gave me some information about Fes, the final city I’d be going to the next day and which would mark the end of my tour. The others also had interesting backgrounds: Jody is a flight attendant and is fluent in Japanese, her husband is Persian but grew up in Italy, and the other couple, Terrance and Suko were Japanese (although he is 2^nd generation from Canada). Being able to speak in English for the first time in days was relaxing, and I also vented to them about my last three days with Driss.

We set the alarm for 5am, stumbled out of the tents, and stumbled up (some of us crawled up!) a huge sand dune to watch the sunrise. I made it 2/3 of the way to the top and decided that was good enough. I was alone, as two of the others had made it to the top and two were further below me. The actual sunrise was masked by the departing rain clouds, but I still felt insignificant as the sun finally showed itself and slowly threw light on the tops of the dunes around me. The stillness and silence were incredible. No sounds, no movement. My ears strained to hear anything in the silence, as it was auditory vertigo or like being surrounded by fog or water without a sense of place. I now understand “deafening” silence.

Jody and I finally decided to jump in the pool after we returned with the camels to the hotel that morning. I was hoping to avoid seeing Driss and the 4x4 driver, which I didn’t, but at least us girls (and Jodi’s husband!) felt unity in numbers. I may meet up with them when they later pass through Nice, and I felt a bit validated by meeting this couple who are chronic travelers like me.

Moroccan Desert Tour

Morocco Tour Part 1: Straight from the back of a donkey to an airplane.

2008-05-25T04:22:00.000-07:00

This was the phrase repeatedly running through my head. How did I find myself on the back of a mule in the middle of a purple and grey moonscape on a precipitous trail with switchbacks to the sky?

Two days before, Judy and I spent a fun, if unseasonably hot, day in Marrakesh. The train down from Casa passed near Ben Guerir, an American Air Force Base which has an emergency landing runway for the Space Shuttle. I thought the name was interesting, as ben is “son” in Arabic and guerir means “to heal” in French. Although never used, Northern Africa is the first land mass the Shuttle flies over after launching from Cape Canaveral.

Marrakesh already looked different from Casa even as the train approached the city. Casa has more sprawl while Marrakesh is bounded by beautiful new mansions set against the view of the Atlas Mountains. After grabbing a taxi at the train station, the driver was hassled by a policeman before we could leave. He argued his way out of whatever the cop had accused him of, and I wondered why they even try until Judy reminded me that not only do policemen get paid very little, but their superiors demand a certain amount of money from bribes, so there’s pressure to get them.

We first went to the Bahia, a royal palace built mostly during the 1300s. Marrakesh is the oldest imperial city and the former capital until the French united Morocco and put an end to the fighting between north and south, Arabs and Berbers. (An interesting side note is that the Berbers, the indigenous people of Morocco, may have descended from the Jewish race, although their delicate facial structure more resembles Ethiopians, and they have begun to get more vocal against Islam.) For those of you who insisted I buy a digital camera for this trip, you’ll be punished by the number of abstract pictures I took of the arches and ceiling mosaics in the Bahia palace. I also took several great pictures of Moroccans from the rooftop table where Judy and I ate a tagine lunch. This was great since many traditional Moroccans shun being photographed, and I try to not be obvious about it.

After a 40-cent freshly made orange juice in the medina, Judy and I spent the afternoon in the market. I was grateful Judy spoke Arabic, as much as the shopkeepers were surprised, and we were able to get a reduced rate from the usual tourist prices. I bought a great red suede shirt and a wonderful beaded cashmere shawl – each for about $40. We also haggled for a small black purse, one I needed to carry my passport, money, and blog notes. It was imprinted with “Gucci, Italy” and others with D&G or Prada. Assuming they were knock-offs, I bargained down to $8, though Judy later thought they might be real, albeit seconds, since the high-end leather factories are in Marrakesh and elsewhere in Morocco. The market stalls brimming with varieties of nuts, dates, and other dried fruit were irresistible. Judy mentioned that Egyptians and other Africans who visit Marrakesh are awed by the bounty. Walking back to my hotel, we made a wide circumference around the snake charmers in the middle of the square. We’re both extremely squeamish around snakes, and apparently they’ll throw a snake around your shoulders and ask for 50 dh to take it off!

The following morning found me in Imlil, a group of 7 villages which serves as the starting point for the two-day trek up to Toubkal, the third highest mountain in Africa (~14000 feet). Rachid, my guide, showed me my planned 4-day trek in the Middle Atlas Mountains (excluding the summit hike, which I wasn’t prepared for). The first day’s trek was uneventful except for lunch. Ibraham caught up to us with a pack mule, set up a little table (tablecloth included) and chair on a Berber rug on a lookout point over the valley below. He and Rachid spent at least half an hour making lunch while I tried to amuse myself by taking pictures. Finally a gorgeous salad topped with cheese and tuna, rimmed by orange slices, plus a hot plate of meatballs in a fresh tomato-onion sauce, bread, and tea were served – enough for 3 people! Later came a full plate of melon slices which I was too full to touch. Rachid then brought out a 3-inch thick mattress, snuggled it into a rocky outcropping, and said I could take a nap. I didn’t really need a nap but quickly realized they were going to take a nap and there was no reason to hurry in Morocco.

Rachid, in his early 20s I would guess, was quiet and spoke impeccable French and English, while Ibraham was gregarious but didn’t speak French too well. I didn’t participate in much conversation but enjoyed the guides’ banter and even singing in Arabic. We stayed in a modest hotel – maybe more like a hostel – where I had dinner with a Ukranian/Russian couple who now lived in San Francisco. The next morning, however, my stomach was churning, and I asked Rachid to give me another couple hours sleep to see if I’d get better. Finally deciding I might feel better once I got going, we hit the trail – where I got sick 15 minutes later. Rachid offered to take me back to Imlil or alter the route since the day’s hike was quite strenuous. “No, no – I’m fine – a bit weak but feeling better.” I didn’t want to “be a girl” and go back. Resting every 10 minutes or so, Rachid and Ibrahim finally let me fall asleep a bit on a rock outcropping. I was really looking forward to the mattress at lunch!

I continued to get sick, not being able to keep any water down. This is when they decided to put me on the mule. I thought it might be a death wish since the trail was so narrow and mountain so steep, but I didn’t particularly care at that point. Five minutes later, while I was in my “straight from the back of the donkey to an airplane (or at least a bed)” reverie, they pulled me off when the mule stumbled on a loose rock and almost fell backwards over the cliff. Rachid and Ibraham resorted to pulling me by the hand up the trail that stretched on forever. Finally Rachid told me that the peak we were ascending to was the final one and only a descent afterwards (of a few kilometers, though!) to the hostel. Ibraham had already finished the ascent with the mule when he came bounding down the trail again. (These guys navigate the mountains like a casual stroll through the park, and seem to do it with only a glass or two of sweet mint tea a day.) Ibrahim was excited. Good news! There was a transport for me at the top! I asked if it was a Ferrari…. obviously a delirious joke. I thought they’d called Imlil to send a car up, but found out it was a Parisian couple in a rental car who were just curious as to where the road ended. They drove Rachid and me down to the hotel, and after telling them they were my guardian angels, immediately got sick again.

God and I had been having conversations all day, and of course I tried to figure out why did this have to happen to me?? I’ll save the dialogue but realized I’d been a snot the day before. I didn’t like the trail (too easy and accessible by car), didn’t like the 4-star lunch (it made me feel self-consciously snobby), felt insecure at the hostel crowded with groups (everyone already knew each other), and walking in silence with my guides for most of the day. I decided I’d been suffering from a lack of gratitude and a grandiose self-sufficiency. I’d been very well-taken care of and decided to appreciate it and whatever was going to happen.

Of course my new gratitude resolve was tested the next day. Rachid knew the taxi driver who was taking us back to Imlil (I’d conceded that the planned 7-hour trek for the day wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest), and again I listened to them talk animatedly and sing songs in Arabic. On the descent, the driver waved to another passing us, then pulled over. While he talked to the other driver, Rachid and I got out and looked at the gorgeous view: red rock mountains and evergreens surrounding the occasional rectangular buildings of a Berber village. He pointed out the area we were scheduled to walk that day, and I felt sad. It would have been beautiful. Again, why did this have to happen to me?? But it was done and I had to trust it was meant to be. We stood looking at the view for quite some time, and I finally asked about our driver who was still talking to the other. “Oh, they’re friends and haven’t seen each other in a long time” replied Rachid. I wondered what “a long time” meant. Probably much shorter than my culture would consider.

Back in Imlil, there was no room in the Toubkal Kasbah, the four-star hotel that arranged my trek. They could put me in an annex a little way down the path into Imlil and I would still take my meals at the Kasbah, but again, I was fighting my disappointment. Rachid delivered me to the terrace for a 4-course hot lunch, of which I could only eat a few bites of each large dish. I felt self-conscious again, eating alone amid tables full of tourists, having such superb food and accommodations while looking up at Toubkal, over at Ibraham’s little Berber village perched on the mountain opposite, and down upon women and girls reaping in the fields with the collected harvest packed on their backs.

My pink room, however, was wonderful. I think I was the only guest in the 3-story annex, so it was very quiet, and I had a full bathroom, which was so nice after being sick. I opened the two big shaded windows wide to listen to the constant rushing water in the irrigation ditch outside, then changed into the warm green jallaba (provided to wear like a robe), and crawled into bed.

Rachid and I met later that afternoon for a little walk around Imlil. On the way out, we ran into Ibraham, just returning with the mule from my shortened trek. He invited us to his house later, and I was so excited and honored! After the walk, I asked Rachid if we could stop back at my hotel since I had nuts, dates, and figs that I’d brought from Marrakesh for the trek but never ate. It made me happy that I could bring gifts to Ibrahim’s family. They laid out a wonderful Berber rug and pillows on the terrace high above the valley and under Toubkal. Ibraham and his wife have two young children and also live with his brother who has two. Being very shy at first, the children laughed at me trying to recite the Arabic numbers from 1 to 10. Then I pulled out my camera and found the secret to getting pictures of children: take one, then show them the digital picture. Suddenly they’re so excited to pose and even take the camera to make their own documentation! Ibraham’s wife served us soup, walnuts, bread with walnut oil, tea, and coffee – a perfect little meal for me. Later, Rachid invited me to visit his family’s house in another village, about 10 minutes away.

I finally asked Rachid a little about himself: he isn’t married – not yet! (seems to be every Moroccan’s response to an unmarried person), has 4 brothers (2 in Marrakesh, one in Holland, and one with whom he lives) and one sister (married to the proprietor of a nearby restaurant where we had tea). He attended the university in Marrakesh while living with his brothers. Though the uni is free, the associated living costs are difficult for most Moroccans to pay, so Rachid had an advantage because of his brothers. He began learning French in the Imlil primary school (from ages 6 to 12), then continued at the university. As for English, he learned in the cafes by speaking with English-speaking tourists. His job as a guide fits him well. He does a trek for 2-8 days, then hangs out at home in Imlil for several days. He’d just returned from two weeks with friends in Agadir, a great surfing beach on the Atlantic. He’s climbed Toubkal many, many times – even skis down it. He told me that you have to pack your skis on the final ascent, which is 3-4 hours, then ski down in 20 minutes! I figured it’s best not to fall or that time would reduce to 10. At Rachid’s house, I conversed in French with his brother’s family and practiced my Arabic with his niece. His mother and father live in the family’s original Berber house two minutes away. The lower levels of the old house are now used to keep the family’s livestock: sheep, cows, and a mule, but his parents still live in the top level since they’ve lived there all their lives. Meals, however, are shared at their children’s home. Although I’d given away all my gifts to Ibraham’s children and nephews, Rachid’s mother insisted I take a generous bag of shelled walnuts, one of the family’s means of income.

The following morning marked my last in Imlil, so Rachid and I planned a half-day trek. He was unusually quiet and finally told me a woman from the village next to his had passed away the previous night. He didn’t want to change the day’s plans, but as we hiked up, we met many dressed-up women on mules led by the men. Only the women’s headscarves were black. They were coming down from other villages for the funeral, which we could see in the distance. I was surprised that it was held so soon after the woman’s death, but shouldn’t have been. Word travels quickly in the villages (aided now by many who have cell phones), and burying the body right away is probably a prudent health measure.

After a 3-hour Arabic lesson during the hike up the mountain towards Toubkal, Rachid and I stopped at a gorgeous waterfall for lunch. Eating the lunch packed by the hotel and watching some lambs come drink by the water was followed by a nap on the warm rocks, both of us being lulled asleep by the sound of the rushing water. I think we’d have stayed all afternoon if I wasn’t on a schedule.

Leaving Imlil with my new driver, Driss, I felt sad. I missed Rachid and Ibraham, the quiet life they lived among their extended relatives encompassing Imlil, and the beauty and freedom of the mountains. Realizing that my experience there came only after the plans were changed because I was sick, my heart filled with gratitude and appreciation. Now I could see that in order to get my attention, God frequently needs to put this stubborn girl on the back of a mule in a desert with a precipitous drop to one side and switchbacks up to heaven.

In this vein of appreciation, I’d also like to thank two good friends who enthusiastically encouraged me to take this long, big trip: Julie and Judy (in her memory). I am grateful to both of you.

Imlil Trek in Morocco

Morocco is a cold country with a hot sun

2008-04-27T10:50:00.001-07:00

(I’m not able to post my photos now because of my internet connection – hope to get them in a couple weeks!)

My Moroccan surfing buddy asked me what I’d done the 10 days I’ve been in Casablanca, and I felt like I had nothing to say! Well, I did take 3 hours of Arabic lessons, surfed 3 days, visited Roman ruins and the capital of Rabat, and went to church and various invitations to lunch, but much of my time was taken by the 4 art classes I facilitated. Two of the classes were for elementary school children, one with high school students, and another with Judy and a few friends to learn oil painting. Hopefully I’ll get the photos uploaded to my blog (I have a slow internet connection) since there are some great ones of the students. The pictures say much more than I could. So the rest of this post consists of random observations and revelations during the week.

Schools are based on memorization. Questions and integration of concepts are not encouraged, and the students are expected to write what the teacher writes and not think individually. The kids really liked doing the art, and the high school administrator said they need it. They’re used to copying exactly what the teacher does on the board. More than 50% (not an exact statistic) of college grads are unemployed, but extremely intelligent, knowledgeable of multiple languages (usually Arabic, French, and English), computers, etc. The university is free, but again, doesn’t guarantee a better or broader life. The association which is providing the schools where we did the art is partially funded by the state, such as use of the buildings, but private donations are required to supplement. The association’s president said she used some of the private donations to paint two classrooms, and then suddenly the state painted the rest of the school. Additionally, teachers are very much in demand. I saw an ad for an art teacher at the American high school, and in the local schools with fewer means, the need is much higher. However, at least the teaching profession is much more respected here than in the States. When I told my surfing buddy that I had spent some of my time in Casa teaching art, his eyes lit up and thought that was fabulous. (of course I had to correct him that I wasn’t an official teacher – I couldn’t just take the compliment…) The small children to whom we brought the art barely know any French, the second language of Morocco and generally as accepted as Arabic. The students are taught French only one day a week, though the administration would like to do more but doesn’t have the means. The children are also shy to try to speak French and are afraid to practice. Of course, knowing French would open the children’s worlds, allowing them to travel and have access to better jobs.

In Casa is a giant flea market, Derb Ghallef, where anything (really!) can be bought, from furniture to food – even a friend (just a joke!). One teacher just had her computer repaired there. Another friend of Dennis and Judy moved to Chicago and quickly became familiar with eBay. He began to buy broken phones off eBay for $1, called his friend in Derb Ghallef to tell him how to fix them, and then sold them on eBay for $20. This side business earned him enough money for the down payment of his house in Chicago!

Dennis & Judy have been here 21 years – it took 6 years to get the language and culture, as much as anyone can ever get to understand a foreign culture. Dennis and I just had a conversation that no matter how long one is immersed in a culture, it never becomes your own – I guess just like a second language, unless it’s learned at an early age. But coming to Morocco, everyone loses their identity, even those with money and connections because they don’t know the culture and how business is done and the language is so foreign. I’ve taken 3 hours of Arabic lessons. Learning German and French, the origins or derivatives of the words often helped me remember them. In Arabic, nothing correlates to any of the “Western” languages – it’s all memorization. And of course, then the written language needs to be learned! Spoken Arabic is very different than Classical (written) Arabic. It’s analogous to Italian, the spoken language, to Latin, the language it is derived from but never spoken.

Few people go to the Anglican Church in Casa, although many nations are represented. African refugees are not rare. The church was built outside the medina (old city) in 1906 (just had the centennial) because Moroccans didn’t want it in the city proper. It was surrounded by fields at the time, and is now surrounded by the business of Casa. Although some daring Christian Moroccans used to go to the church, since 9/11 a guard has been posted to protect the European and American foreigners. The Moroccan monarchy declares freedom of religion for its people. This is defined as the foreigners are free to be Christians and Jews and the Moroccans to be Islamic. The call to prayer can be heard five times a day (I heard the 4am call one morning when my jet lag turned on me), and Muslims stop whatever they are doing to pray. Judy and I were invited to the school director’s house for couscous on Friday (EVERYBODY eats couscous in Morocco on Friday!). After the meal but before tea was served, she excused herself to go upstairs to pray. Judy and I were left alone in the living room, so we decided to pray as well. For Moroccans, to be anything but Islamic is illegal. Many Moroccan Christians, their families, and associates are questioned and even jailed, some several times. Mail, emails, and websites are censored, so few publicly declare themselves Christian. Also, marriages between a Muslim woman and a non-Muslim man are not recognized as legal. Our friends Atiqa, a Moroccan, and her German husband Martin cannot get a hotel room in Morocco. However, an Islamic man can marry anyone.

I heard a quip that I debated writing, but here it is anyway:

God gave the Muslims of the world the desert. But underneath the desert is oil…

An Islamic believer is Muslim (Islamic is the adjective; Muslim is the noun). Muslims were Arabs to begin with (Mohammed was an Arab), but can now be applied to Persians, Indians, Afghans, and so on. Berbers were the original inhabitants of Morocco. The Jews and Arabs came later (more on that below). Dennis and I were discussing some of the issues of the US’s involvement in the Middle East. He mentioned that Islam is basically incompatible with democracy because one of Islam’s tenants is to be the highest ruler. This was the cause of the war in Lebanon from 1975-90 because the balance tipped to Christians and a Christian leader came to power.

Morocco is not a favorable place for women and girls to live. The mother of our little friend Sahra (see the photos) who lives in the same compound as Dennis and Judy’s cabin, was kidnapped from school at the age of 16 by the man who is now her husband. Young girls are often sold by their families as factory or agricultural slaves in exchange for money that they may never see. Sweat shops are still prolific in Morocco, owned by the very rich. I observe that only men sit at the French-style cafes along the street. In Rabat, Judy and I searched for about an hour for a place to sit for a casual lunch that didn’t have only men in the restaurant. Even looking into the restaurants we were stared at. However, there is also a class system. Women are not the only workers in the fields and factories. I also found out that artists and artisans often do not get paid for their work when completed – only the money paid up front.

Straight from the back of the donkey to the airplane.

The US grants Moroccans a certain number of visas each year. Moroccans put their name into a lottery to win these visas. However, they also need $200, the airfare, and a sponsor in the States (hence my friends shred all their mail, bills, etc so they don’t become sponsors to strangers). But winning the visa lottery and meeting the other qualifications can change the life of a Moroccan and his family in the blink of an eye.

Moroccans are a very clean people. Homes are scrubbed with bleach and other powerful detergents frequently in order to keep demons away. Additionally, there is no hot water available in kitchens because the demons live down in the pipes and hot water would anger them (but apparently they don’t live in the bathroom pipes where hot water is available). In the Moroccan home, traditional food is eaten family style using only the right hand (since the unmentionables are done with the left). Using a small piece of bread (which is torn from the loaf only with the right hand – I haven’t mastered this yet), they use it to grab a piece of meat or veggie or potato and do it so that they don’t even touch the food. Moroccans are very generous and share everything, from large bowls of food in the middle of the table to art supplies.

Monday, Judy, Atiqa, Martin, and I went to Volubilus, the Roman ruins, probably the best in the world. I took many pictures of the ruins, again because I can’t describe it well enough with words. Many mosaics that decorated the floors are still intact. The main city gate, bath, arches, fountains, and several different types of columns and olive oil presses remain. The footprints of the large houses (most around 2000 meters square) remain, as well as the front rooms which were stores on the main street. We basically walked down a Roman shopping mall. I overheard one guide tell his group that the very front room in the house was usually the living room where they entertained guests. The guide said the Romans were very egotistical and wanted all the neighbors to see the important people coming to visit – actually, the Romans were the first Moroccans! Anyway, the location where the city was built is beautiful, with a long view of the surrounding fields. The Romans chose this place because of the visibility of anyone approaching the city as well as the weather which is similar to Italy and supports the cultivation of olive trees. While being close to the Mediterranean was advantageous for trade, north of this location is extremely windy. Therefore, the ruins are about 200 km from the sea.

Visible from Volubils is the small, tightly-knit hillside village of Moulay Idriss. For Muslims who cannot make the pilgrimage to Mecca, the birthplace of Muhammad, a pilgrimage to Moulay Idriss is the next best thing. It is named after the first descendant of Muhammad to arrive in Africa, after he had killed someone and was on the run. The Berbers allowed him to hide out in their village, and he brought Islam. We didn’t go into Moulay Idriss, but Judy has previously driven through the city. Her impression was that it was a very sad place. Muslims are considered more spiritual if they don’t dance, sing, or laugh much. So the high concentration of the very spiritual who live in Moulay Idriss and hardly even smile makes for a sad-looking village. Each year for Muhammad’s birthday, fortune tellers and others who speak to spirits come to Moulay Idriss to gain strength and renew their power. Muhammad’s birthday isn’t quite like Christmas when Christians honor Christ’s birth. Gifts are given to children for the Muslim New Year, and birthdays are not celebrated for the most part. Many Moroccans don’t even know their birthday. Parents may refer to the birth of a child as “before the flood” or “at the end of the harvest”. One woman said her maid’s birthday is January 1^st. Well, that probably means she has no idea of the date of her birthday!

As we drove through the city of Meknes (Morocco’s oldest along with Fes and Marrakesh), we noticed lots of Moroccan flags (even hanging from private balconies) and banners featuring the King’s portrait. Atiqa didn’t know why, since this was usually only done when he was coming into town, like when 4000 Arabian stallions ran in the nearby area for the former king’s birthday celebration. However, she couldn’t think of why he’d be coming now. Anyway, Meknes, Marrakesh, and Fes are the oldest cities because they were on the camel trail which facilitated trade.

Along the highways and roads, I saw shepherds with their flock, farmers with donkeys, and both men and women walking long distances. It wasn’t unusual to see someone walking alone on the auto route, miles from any structure or village that I could see. Judy tells me to be careful when someone gives directions and says it’s “just a bit down the street”. It’s nothing for Moroccans to walk several miles.

Monday evening, after driving through the beautiful spring countryside north of Casa and visiting the ruins, we stayed at a rustic cabin that Judy and Dennis share as a little getaway. It’s on a lake with a 3-mile trail around it, set in a valley surrounded by bright green fields. I was struggling with a cold, the heater didn’t work, and Judy tried to make hot chocolate with pepper instead of cocoa. This is when Atiqa told me that Morocco is a cold country with a hot sun – it really isn’t that warm after the sun goes down. I’ll remember that as I pack for my 4-day trek in the Atlas Mountains next week! Anyway, I survived the cold with several hours of card games and my warm socks and fleece hat.

Current King of Morocco is called the “King of the Poor”. While he is benevolent, his father was just the opposite. For example, in each of his palaces (one in every major city, plus others), he had the same feast prepared each day “in case” he was in the palace. While people feared the father, people fear for the current king since he is disrupting the power of the top echelon. Each Friday, the king rides a white horse to the palace mosque to lead prayers which is televised nationally. In Rabat, the capital of Morocco, Judy and I were allowed to drive into the royal compound because we were American tourists (imagine that!). No cars were going through the gate, so I thought Judy was crazy for pulling up and asking if we could drive through. The official first looked at the windshield as if checking for some authorizing sticker or placard. Then Judy told him we were tourists. When he repeated “tourists” with a smile, I thought he would laugh in our faces! However, he asked where we were from, then let us go in! I got one picture each of two of the palace buildings as we drove slowly by (pictures are not easy to take here), but my camera died after a long two days of sightseeing. I didn’t get to photograph the building used for receiving dignitaries or the mosque, both of which were incredible.

The Moroccans have a joke that the edible flowers on the cactus are called “Muslim” flowers, while the thorny, inedible ones are the “foreign” flowers. I haven’t felt that way, though, in my first week here.

I finally went surfing the last few days, and it was quite the scene on the beach! Many people were out, though not many in the water. Numerous soccer games were being held, several joggers (who looked like soccer players) ran by, a few horseback riders as well as a man offering rides on a horse with a red & gold saddle, a couple of overweight American-looking women on their walk, and Muslim women with their full head scarves on lifting their skirts to just their knees to step a bit into the water. I’m glad I don’t know Arabic because many men on the beach had something to say when I walked by in my wetsuit, even without me looking at them (I was too scared!). Back on the boardwalk, I kept my wetsuit on as long as possible because the father of one of the boys in the group was staring at me for ~10 minutes, along with several other passerby. All I can say is that for once I’m glad I’m not blonder and thinner….

Roman Ruins & Rabat (Morocco)

"The full stomach knows nothing about the empty" - Moraccan saying

2008-04-19T12:44:00.000-07:00

Meeting my friend Judy outside customs of the new Air France and Air Moroc terminal at the Casablanca airport, I was about to fall over. Even for this seasoned traveler, I’d about reached my limit. Two hours before my flight out of LAX I was at the French consulate in Century City getting my visa (I needed a 6-month visa). At check-in, I was furiously digging through my overweight suitcase, throwing electronic power cords, a few CDs, and an excess canvas into my already stuffed carry-ons. I had four bags, two of them heavy carry-ons (an overstuffed backpack served as my allowed “personal item”), each loaded with books, my laptop, vitamin bottles (another heavy item that could go through security), art paper, and canvases. After getting my one suitcase down to 50.5 lbs to avoid the $50 charge, I had to dig out my laptop from the bottom of one bag to get through security. I felt like such an American tourist attached to so much of her “stuff”. (Of course I do realize this is an unnecessary generalization of my fellow countrymen, but I was overly self-conscious and tired and frustrated lugging around such heavy luggage.) My flights were though Houston and Paris to Casablanca. I didn’t sleep at all, I guess partly due to 3 episodes each of “House” and “CSI” (two of my addictions) on the transatlantic flight. My large suitcase didn’t arrive in CB, though they gave me ~$60 in dirhams to return the next day to pick it up (no delivery service as I had to take it through customs myself). At 7:30 that evening, feeling sick to my stomach after no sleep for 30 hours, I crashed and slept until 10 the next morning – although I think this did help to get me reasonably on Moroccan (GMT) time.

On the way home from the airport, Judy stopped at some friends’. Their home, near the airport as the owner is a retired air controller, impressed me. In fact, upon retirement he was honored by the King with a certificate and medal – quite an achievement and commensurate with his excellence at work. Inside the exterior walls were bright orange and yellow flowers that are profuse in California (don’t ask me the name – I’m no biologist or botanist!), orange trees, and fig trees. Morocco is much like Cali, in topography (western coastal areas merging to the high central Atlas mountains, then descending to the eastern deserts) as well as climate. Walking into the house, I was first reminded by the smell of my Opa’s house in Germany when I was a kid – a soft earthy smell. The walls were a warm yellow ochre, the ceilings garnished with typical white lattice, and a wonderful pale blue damask sofa built-in and running around the perimeter of the living room. It could have seated about 25! We were served hot tea – a green tea with fresh mint – and Moroccan “mud” – ground almonds and other nuts browned in a bit of oil. We spoke 5 languages in the group: French, German, English, spoken Arabic, and Berber. Lest I impress you, I didn’t participate in most of the conversations! However, the Moroccans are very considerate and insisted that someone translate for me when I didn’t understand.

Morocco is expensive! I should have glimpsed that when handing over my visa number for the touring I’ll be doing my final 10 days here, but I thought it was mostly due to the daily falling value of the dollar (~7 dirham to $1). Judy told me that the cost of living of Casablanca is just behind that of New York City. Money here is king. The train for the two of us to go back to the airport to retrieve my lost luggage was $25, for a 20-minute ride! This is probably similar to the UK, but I was surprised to be charged this in a third-world country.

Flying into Morocco, the landscape looked like any other in northern Europe. Agricultural fields coloured in all shades of green, ochre, and brown-red stretched below. As we descended, however, I noticed really the only difference was the picturesque farm houses replaced by walled housing compounds . Driving and walking around the city, Casablanca reminds me of Mexico – maybe someplace like Ensenada, being on a gorgeous coastline. As Judy and I loaded my suitcases into the car, a young man appeared from nowhere and put the last one in the car, then asked for money. “Just one euro…” An intelligent- and sharp-looking man of about 20 was selling Kleenex at a signal. Others just approach us – one ran across the street for a handout as we left the beach – without even a pretense of selling something useless. The small neighborhood streets are definitely third-world with ruts and holes and well-worn pavement. Young men hang out on the corner. Shops are small with incongruous items crowding the shelves and windows, reminding me of thrift stores. Prices automatically increase probably 20%, at least, when Judy and I walk in, though Judy’s fluent Arabic helps reduce that a bit. One of the main streets near Dennis and Judy’s apartment, however, looks like Cannes (except for the cars, and the ever-present petrol smell). Nice-looking apartments top shiny, expensive French retail stores, many the same chains as in France. Tall palm trees line the center island.

Driving in the city is chaotic by my perception, no one minding the lanes, parking laws, or blind spots. I don’t understand the purpose of all the honking except to say “Here I come, get out of my way”. The prevalent motorcycles, dirt bikes, and 3- and 4-wheelers are owned not by those who can’t afford a car, like in Cannes, but by rich kids for whom it’s entertainment. We got stuck behind a gang driving through the “Beverly Hills” of CB as they practiced their wheelie-pops. Also, out in the less-crowded countryside near the airport, I guess you’re allowed to go down the wrong side of the street until it’s convenient to merge onto the other side. I’m still confused. Although if life in the Moroccan fast lane is too much for me, I suppose I could just take a donkey taxi….

Yesterday Judy and I went to the beach (checking out my surfing possibilities) and drove along the coastline. The Grand Mosque loomed on the beach, built recently with funds obtained by a decree that every Moroccan “donate” one month’s salary and shopkeepers and owners giving 2 month’s worth. It’s the largest mosque in the world, on par with the Astrodome. 120 dh allow entry into the mosque by way of the 4-story platinum doors. Judy told me with distaste that 25 people were killed in the construction, unnecessary with modern precautions. Further along are a new man-made marina being built and a grand resort and mall and other rich tourist attractions. They are funded by the Moroccan monarchy, along with the continual extension of CB’s city limits out into the Atlantic. We passed the royal compound, sitting on a hill overlooking the ocean near the Grand Mosque. Inside are the palace, the royal mosque, and a library. Moroccan libraries are not lending libraries – nothing can be removed from the premises – and Judy said it was deathly-quiet inside. A typical Moroccan house has no books, except the Qur’an, since they are a luxury most can’t afford and most can’t read. Also distinguishing the income dichotomy is the presence of McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, and KFC. They are quite upscale and state-of-the-art. The first McDonald’s in all of Africa, built about 15 years ago, overlooks the beach and offers the McSahara, featuring anise spicing and gyro-type bread as a bun. A mile on, a KFC, invisible from the coastal road, sits right on the sand and is quite the hangout for watching the scene or a sunset. Along the street I see young men selling puppies, holding them out to passing cars like piñatas. None of this matches the Casablanca of Hollywood, but there is a Rick’s Café. Judy says it’s done very much like the movie set, and though I try to get a glimpse, the guard tells me it’s closed. I’d like to invite Judy and Dennis there, since it’s reportedly quite good, but she tells me it’s too expensive – about $20-$25 a person. I insist, telling her I’ve got 8-months of travel budget to blow through here! We’ll see… I haven’t seen Humphrey around yet, though most of the Moroccans are quite good-looking. Don’t misconstrue this though, as I’ve no engagement plans.

Casablanca

Around the World in 255 Days

2008-04-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

Some of you have already heard bits and pieces and rumours, whereas to others this will be out of the blue, but I’ll be leaving Wednesday 16-April for an 8-month trip to paint and visit friends. I’ve bought an around-the-world flight with stops in Morocco, Europe, St. Petersburg, Israel, Singapore, Australia, and New Zealand. Below is a more detailed itinerary -- to the best of my knowledge for now. I’ll be keeping a journal and posting it every week or two, hopefully, with pictures of course!
Take care,
Laurie

Thursday 17-April – CASABLANCA, MOROCCO
Staying with my friends Judy & Dennis in Casablanca
Surfing, giving art classes, taking Arabic lessons, touring the coast and Marrakesh with Judy
4 day trek in the Atlas Mountains through indigenous Berber villages
Touring eastern Morocco to see Kasbahs, oases, canyons, dunes, and the edge of the Sahara
Riding a camel…

Saturday 10-May – SAN GIMIGNANO, ITALY
Hanging out in a villa with my good buddies Tim & Christian and 5 or 6 other random people
Eating well, being tourists, taking lots of pictures for inspiration, enjoying Tuscany!

Saturday 17-May to Saturday 21-June – CANNES, FRANCE
Staying with my good friends the Mumfords & their clan
Doing my art painting in their lovely garden – maybe it’ll take me in a new direction…
Enjoying seeing good friends again
Swimming in the Mediterranean

Saturday 21 to 28-June -- BOURG d’OISANS (near Grenoble), FRANCE
Hosting art classes during a retreat for Christian missionaries sponsored by my church

28-June to 21-July – HUEMOZ, SWITZERLAND
Personal retreat at L’Abri, a study center of religion focusing on Christianity

21-July to 7-August – LUXEMBOURG & GERMANY
Visiting my German family : cousins in Luxembourg, Heidelberg, and Berlin ;
aunts & uncles in Hamburg
Babysitting all my cousins’ newborns :-)

7 to 16-August – LONDON, ENGLAND
Visiting my best friend Suzette and her family
Going to the theater as much as possible
Shopping for clothes that I probably can’t afford (but they’re so hard to resist!)

16-August to 5-September – ST. HILAIRE LA PALUD (near La Rochelle), FRANCE
Housesitting for friends the Bauers (I get to feed & water a donkey!)
Painting
Swimming (maybe surfing) in the Atlantic
Eating good fish in La Rochelle
Long walks in the forest and countryside

5-Sept to 23-October – CANNES, FRANCE
More painting
Having art exhibitions – hopefully!

23 to 29-October – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA
Being overwhelmed by the art at the Hermitage
Seeing alot of Orthodox cathedrals
Clubbing
Trying to stay warm

29-October to 9-November – TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
Meeting 70+ friends from church
Touring Jerusalem and the places Jesus lived and taught
3 days in Cairo, Egypt

9 to 27-November – SINGAPORE
Hanging out with my good friend Christian
Touring Malaysia, maybe Thailand, and ???

28-Nov to 18-Dec – WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND
Playing tourist in Sydney and Melbourne, Australia
Surfing the Gold Coast
Touring at least the southern island of NZ
Celebrating my birthday with my good friend Catherine

19-December – LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Home for the Holidays !