Travel – Page 5 – Don't Gel Too Soon

Lisbon, Visas and Jews

Praca de comerce2 — Praça do Comércio at the harbor entrance to Lisbon.

Lisbon is a gorgeous city with a tough history. We spent today with a specialist in Jewish life here – which went from a quarter of a million souls to 700 between WWII and today. Between the Axis and Salazar they never had a chance, and before that…. well the stories of abuse and expulsion are too hideous to describe.

It’s enough to say that through the centuries Jews were permitted in Lisbon and Portugal for short periods of time and then expelled. When the economy tanked and needed a boost, the king always invited them back. For a while. Then the cycle began again. Each time it was “convert or leave.” And if you do leave, you go without your money, your goods or anything else. Those who remained, as “cryptojews” (secret Jews or those practicing old Jewish ways even though they were no longer identified as Jews,) or were unfortunate enough to be around during one of the angry Jew-banning periods, retribution was swift and terrible. Torture, burning at the stake, slow, Game of Thrones deaths by other means and, more than once, forceable seizure of children who were then either adopted by Christians or enslaved. One particularly terrible story involves 1506, right around Passover, when thousands faced grisly, dramatic trials, sentencing and death. It is not a pretty story.

Passover massacre memorial — Memorial to those who died in 1506

It took until the early 21st Century for anyone to acknowledge and commemorate this terrible time.

There’s lots more, all of it sadly familiar, although in many ways the Portuguese were more horribly creative than most in what they did to the Jews in their midst.

There are also stories of enormous courage, including Aristides de Sousa Mendes, a diplomat who saved thousands of Jews by issuing visas and exit papers to them after having been forbidden to do so. Mostly though, even today the terrible stories outweigh the good ones. By a lot.

We learned all this, and so much more, from a spectacular guide named Paolo Scheffer whose knowledge is exceeded only by his passion for sharing it.

Revolution anniversarhy photo cropped — The world’s coolest coup (NBC News)

That knowledge, although focused on Jewish history and art history, also covers the politics surrounding the EU and the Portuguese economy, the days of dictator Antonio Salazar and the wonders of the 1974 “Carnation Revolution” whose 40th anniversary was celebrated on April 25th. The uprising against Portugal’s fascist dictator killed only four, and featured carnations in gun barrels and on demonstrators.

It’s wonderful to recall, but this day has been replete with memories of uprisings of a different sort, always with the Jews as targets. Perhaps recalling the carnations and all they stood for also reminds us of the vulnerability of all minorities in all cultures and the need for all of us to rise up to protect them.

Welcome to the End of the World

It’s 3:30 in the afternoon and we’ve just returned from a trip to the barren cliff of Sagres, which was, until the 15^th century, the end of the world.

It was there that Henry the Navigator, the third son of King John of Portugal, sent the explorers he trained and financed out to explore what lay beyond the lands they knew.

It’s an inspiring story – a charismatic royal, never to be king, transforming Portugal and, really, the world. Sadly, all this wonder emerged despite, not because of, our guide. It’s tough to overestimate the power of a guide on a bus full of eager learners. She can seduce, enchant and mesmerize, or she can issue rote descriptions, lecture on the virtues of diversity to a crew of people who are on the trip because it’s what they already value, and, eventually, become toxic force within the community. And that’s what she was. Which wouldn’t be worth mentioning except that by the time we left the bus we were so bummed we were sniping at each other. Agitated and angry, disappointed and dismissed. OH and she forgot to show us where the statue of Henry was and wouldn’t turn around the one roundabout between us and his lovely presence pointing out to sea.

When you travel, every day is a jewel to be burnished, full of potential experiences and lessons and joys to share. So when someone violates the trust of leading this crew of nomads, it’s a grave offense, particularly painful in such a bleak, beautiful, Wuthering Heightsish landscape.

Fortunately, we rallied, went into the Portimāo for lunch, met some cool expats and saw trees wearing granny squares,

some crazy ceramic benches with one tale of the history of Portugal illustrated on each one and a couple of really interesting political posters. Tomorrow: Lisbon!

Bruce, Sting, Tangier and Us

Amazing day. Of course Rick found Said (center,) the guide who worked with Bruce Springsteen and Sting during the 80’s Amnesty tour. He was a trip and a pleasure. Tangier is not as romantic or exotic as I had expected but it certainly was interesting.

It was May Day so lots of things were closed including the famous, visited-by-George-Washington American Legation Building. Morocco was the first country to recognize the new United States in 1777 so it would have been cool to go inside the place so long a part of our shared history, but this country has a real workers’ May Day and public buildings are all closed.

The holiday also meant no garbage collection so the streets were kind of scruffy, too.

tangier synagogue edited

We went to see the old Sephardic synagogue but the guard had lost the key (seriously !) We did look in through the open windows though, which actually offered a pretty good view.

Oh, and in case I forgot to tell you , here’s a reluctant undertaking. For the record. Yes. Camels.

So Many Stories

dinner window 4-29 — Evening, out the window.

There are some amazing people here. Wander around looking for a poolside table for lunch and two people look up and say, “Join us.” They turn out to be a pair of characters with whom we share enormous common ground – in broadcasting, in travel, in life.

Go to Trivia at noon and be outclassed at every turn (an unfamiliar experience, I might add.) Meet two couples who’ve sailed around the world and several who’ve hit most of it. All full of stories and curiosity and an unfettered sense of adventure.

Spend a couple of hours on the private patio; wander upstairs to check out the gym and the spa then downstairs to the “book swap” to find an old favorite I would have rated “highly unlikely” to be along on a trip like this.

Then I met a Game of Thrones couple who had never heard of Hyperion and were thrilled when I went back to the give away and brought it to them. A perfect cruise reminder: never assume anything about anyone. Don’t.

I guess that’s true in general but out here on the sea it’s particularly so. Physical therapist or CEO, accountant or fashionista, nobody is predictable and almost everybody is as eager to meet you as you are to meet them. An openness to discovery – of new places, people, food, books and ideas dominates.

A lecture on tomorrow’s destination filled the large auditorium. It’s a kind of floating grad school dorm for grownups. In other words, as we move toward our first stop in Tangier in about eight hours, we’re a bunch of excited, curious, energetic travelers who also just happen to be living on a ship where this appeared at the foot of our bed tonight.

Yes, he’s a towel wearing Rick’s sunglasses and holding the info on our next stop in his paws. Goodnight for now, from Rick, me and the bunny.

A Day in Barcelona, Sailing On

Here we are – on the Mediterranean Sea, enroute from Barcelona to Tangier. Sounds like something out of Casablanca but we’re really on our way – another great adventure is born.

Barcelona folks at the Placa Reiale fountain — Tourists symmetrically resting at Barcelona’s Plaça Reial Fountain.

Barcelona was amazing; we only had a day and a half and, exhausted from our flight, slept through the half and awoke just in time to go to the pier and board our ship.

Barcelona terraces 2 — Look carefully: lots of different things take place on Barcelona balconies – from sunbathing to gardening to laundry.

No Zara, no mementos or gifts, but a brief wander around the old Jewish neighborhood and a spectacular walking tour of the great Gaudi buildings that add so much to what is already a vital, beautiful, cosmopolitan city.

Once aboard* we recalled what is so great about this sort of trip. The word “cruise” may summon visions of blue hair and stodgy folks but the truth is that people who choose this are gregarious (pretty tough to be otherwise in this collective environment) and love to swap travel stories – as well as tales about almost anything else. In our brief first day, we’ve already met and spoken at length with people from Australia, Canada, Minnesota, Florida, Arizona and Arkansas. All of them are avid explorers with amazing back stories. You’ll meet them too, right here, as the days pass.

It’s late though, so I’m keeping my post-a-day pledge without too much detail. Know only that our flights were comfortable and on time, Barcelona enchanting and exhausting and our first half day at sea lovely and a great preview of all that is to come. You’ll hear about all that, too.

*The Seabourn QUEST

Through the Looking Glass, 21st Century RFID-Style

iTunes stations2 Equation of the day: Cognitive dissonance = searching for travel accessories that will hold a passport and credit cards AND provide RFID protection AND go under one’s clothing — while at the same time listening to the “If You Like the Grateful Dead” Channel on iTunes Radio. OR I could switch to the Leonard Cohen one for the same result. I’m usually pretty good at avoiding over-60 vertigo but this…

We can’t take our laptops or iPhones overseas without the capacity to completely cut off data and email. Everything but text. The data pirates I first met all those years ago in Neuromancer are legion now, having moved from (fictionally) stealing corporate data to (really) pulling infinite amounts of information from our passports, phones, laptops and credit cards. At least the kind they use in Europe.

Pretty dark, and way beyond simple identity theft, right? Now available: where we’ve gone and for how long, what we’ve bought and from whom, phone calls, emails, passwords and personal information out there like a big buffet just waiting for them. As I listen to the music, I keep thinking of anthem-saturated marches, pot-scented dorm rooms, grey afternoons with the Sisters of Mercy and a vital, curious, well-educated self who could never have imagined, much less understood, our modern vulnerabilities. Even in the 90’s, with its “Information wants to be free” mantra didn’t prepare me for this.

Greece’s Pain: It’s not Greek to Us – It IS Us!

Immigrant solidarity English onlt

See this?

Looks like home, doesn’t it? And sometimes it feels like we are the only country struggling with these issues of immigration. But guess what. This poster isn’t from Arizona, or Florida, it’s part of a sign on a wall on Ermou Street in downtown Athens.

It’s not the only one, either. The country is under terrible economic pressure and it’s fraying things. According to our very sweet taxi driver, despite the rumors of wild spending on services, Greece does not provide for the homeless or the poor – at least not enough. And the people coming into Greece want jobs and “a better life” but “they aren’t taking any food from me!” He’s with the marcher s- but there are plenty on the other side too. We know it’s true in France and Germany — and that Mohamed is one of the most frequent names for new babies in many European countries. But as you can see the sympathy hasn’t completely eroded. In addition to these posters, there are many stencils, borrowed from Paris, look like the one below, also from a wall in our neighborhood here.

For more evidence of how bad things are — look at this sure coal mine canary: Squeegee men vintage NYC in the 1980’s – all over town.

I’ll keep you posted as we move through the islands – assuming things will be different there. Would write more but it costs the earth to use the web on this “yacht.”

Audrey Hepburn, Gregory Peck and Roman Holiday: a Political Lesson? No, Really.

It was a fairy tale about a princess on a journey. Doing her duty, kind of like Diana (but, since she was played by Audrey Hepburn, even classier,) she came to Rome, after Athens, London and Paris, to conclude her mission.

But she was young and beautiful and sick of receptions and parades. And so, in the middle of the night, she snuck out the embassy window and ventured across the Piazza di Spagna and into the Roman night.

If you know this movie at all, you remember with sweet nostalgia the way you felt the first time you saw it. The princess asleep near the Trevi Fountain on the Roman equivalent of a park bench is awakened, like Sleeping Beauty, by reporter Joe Bradley, played by Gregory Peck. ( If the film has a flaw, it’s that we know some of what will happen once we see him there. He’s a good guy and that’s who he plays. He is Atticus Finch, after all.)
The film was released in 1953, right in the middle of the 1950’s. Written by Dalton Trumbo, “Roman Holiday” was credited to a “front” named Ian McLellan Hunter, because Trumbo, blacklisted as a member of the Hollywood Ten, wasn’t permitted to write for movies any longer. It’s one of the darkest chapters in Hollywood history, very much a part of the image of the decade and a sad facet of a beloved film that won three Oscars and introduced the world to Audrey Hepburn.
There’s something else though. The people in this film behave well. There are things that they want, desperately, but there are principals at stake, and they honor them. When Peck meets Hepburn, he doesn’t recognize her but lets her crash at his apartment. Once he figures out who she is, he knows this “runaway” could be the story of his life. Even so, after a brief, idyllic tour of the city, (SPOILER ALERT) she honors her responsibilities and returns to her royal duties, and of course, he never writes the story. It was very much an artifact of the
“Greatest Generation” ideals, manifested with such courage during
WWII and very much the flip side of the jaundiced (and just as accurate) Mad Men view of the 50’s. Duty and honor trump romance and ambition.

Once again, I’m struck with admiration for the people of these times. Yes the 50’s did terrible damage and made it difficult to be eccentric or rebellious or even creative. But films like this one, or Now Voyager and similar films of the 40’s, sentimental as they may be, remind us of what else these people were. They’d lived through the Depression and the war and they had an elevated sense of responsibility. As we watch much of our government (and some of the rest of us) disintegrate into partisanship and self-interest, it makes a lot more sense than it did when we rose up against it all in the 1960’s. Doesn’t it?

Repost – Best of Don’t Gel 2009: Loving London

That old rascal Samuel Johnson told us that when we were tired of London, we'd be tired of life
I know it's summer when any city is inviting but this week is cool and
bright and breezy and London is full of British school groups and kids
from everywhere else too, and we have an apartment right in the middle
of Covent Garden (well NOT the market, God forbid, just the
neighborhood) and our older son and his new wife are only 40 minutes
away and we have friends here, too. So how could we be tired?

What you see here is the view from Waterloo Bridge (and yes that's St. Paul's Cathedral in the background.) This morning I went out and walked all along the , over where the trees are, then crossed a bridge just out of view on the right and returned via South Bank,
London's wonderful (relatively) new arts and museum area. My entire
walk was around three miles and I'm realizing that it's much easier to
do the walking when there are new things to look at, not just the old
neighborhood or, as lovely as it is, Rock Creek Park.

The wonder of a great city is that it's always changing, that even the most
trivial journey is full of surprises. On my way home tonight I came
across a group of teenagers – one of dozens of groups we've been seeing
ever since we got here. The reason they're all sitting on the sidewalk
is that they're exchanging addresses and spelling them out – different
nationalities, different spelling. Kind of an EU photo.

Of course there's lots else going on here. Huge waves of immigration, the
wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, what looks to me to be an appalling
amount of youthful alcohol consumption and unemployment all take their toll. There's something about the
place despite those issues though. The day after the2005 subway bombing that killed 52 people, Londoners got back on the train and went to work. They did that all during the Blitz as much of the rest of the world watched them face down Hitler almost alone.

Cities are supposed to change. That's what makes them exciting. Even so,
London has seen more than its share: waves of immigration that have
transformed it, an early history of wars and fires and plagues,
contemporary royal scandals and of course the "troubles" between
Belfast and the rest of Ireland and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
After all, who would have believed before it arrived to help celebrate
the Millennium, that there would be a ferris wheel right in the center
of town? They call it the London Eye to
make it sound fancy but it's still a ferris wheel, here in same town
that has a real live queen living in a real live palace? It's pretty
amazing.

I'm
thinking that while we're here I can try to get past some of what I've
written here and learn a bit of what it's like to truly live
here. It's got to be different from wandering around with no need to
be on time or face the traffic or crowded mass transit and infinite
numbers of tourists and, incidentally, deal with what appears to be an
enormous amount of alcohol consumption – especially by men. I'm hoping
to keep you posted as I make my way. I hope you'll come along.

New Years and Long Marriages: How Have We Done It?

It’s very hard to be married. This is no headline. But the Sunday New York Times on December 13th carried a piece by David Sarasohn; a meditation on marriage, moving from the first
lines: “I have been married forever. Well, not since the Big Bang but since the Nixon administration — 35 years — a stretch long enough to startle new acquaintances or make talk-show audiences applaud” to the last.

As you may deduce from the hair, we too married during the Nixon years, and we too are still together. We were married on September 12,1971 and have survived more than 38 years of complicated marriage about which I’ve written before. So why now?

Well, first of all because my husband asked me to write it. Just to see what came out, I think. How did we do it? How are we still doing it? Oh – and why have we bothered? We’ve seen friends split over much less than what we’ve faced, so what was different?

Here’s Mr. Sarasohn’s theory:

I am somewhat better with words than my wife is; she is infinitely better with people. In different ways, we translate each other to the rest of the world, and admire each other’s contrasting language skills. Being married to someone you respect for being somehow better than you keeps affection alive. That this impressive person chooses you year after year makes you more pleased with yourself, fueling the kind of mutual self-esteem that can get you through decades.

Not bad. I know we’ve been all over the world and I would never have had the nerve with out him; he is the one who was probably an airplane in a previous life. And that we met an extraordinary number of wonderful people because of the work he chose to do. And that he pushed me to write my book and never expected me to be anything but a working mom. And among psychoanalysts in Manhattan in the 70s and 80s that was pretty amazing. OH and he shoved and pushed and pulled me to spend money on myself once in a while, which was very hard for a girl from a Depression-scarred background. I know he’s got his own list for me as well.

Of course we’ve faced plenty of though stuff too. His chronic illness is a rotten burden and one that has colored much of our time together. And we’ve had professional and financial crises, and moved from Washington to Palo Alto to New York to another apartment in New York to Los Angeles to another house in Los Angeles to Washington and another house in Washington. We’ve had some challenges as parents and as partners, other health issues including open-heart surgery, loss of our parents and very tough moments even now. But leaving – that was never an option. We have many young friends who wonder at the
fact that we are still together and it’s one of the few times I feel a distance
from them. I’m so aware that it’s something you know more than you say, despite the beauty
and wisdom of the Sarasohn piece and despite my efforts here.

Once my dad told me that he was sure we’d never be divorced; we were both too stubborn. I guess that’s true too, but it takes more than that. We are never ever bored with each other. We share basic values that we’ve been able to pass on to our kids even though we may have
differed on the details. We trust each other. We have fun – and now, day-by-day, we share a history.

A collected set of joint memories is not a small thing. I always say it’s like quitting smoking – every day you accumulate increases the value of the commitment. Just this morning, listening to the blizzard weather predictions, I recalled an orange outfit we had bought our toddler in
Paris more than thirty years ago. “Remember the orange snowsuit we bought Josh in au Printemps?” I asked him. He smiled in fond recollection and said “Yeah, but it was Galeries Lafayette.” There are a lifetime of those moments.

That was, by the way, the same trip where Josh stared up at the Winged Victory of Samothrace towering at the top of the main staircase in the Louvre and said “pigeon.”

I’m telling you these small memories for a reason. The big things are cool too – watching a son get married, fancy parties with high-profile people, trips around the country and around the world. But within and surrounding the gigantic are those moments that make a marriage,
tiny and still; a quiet loving word from a son, or the sharing of a meal he has prepared, the deck of a beach house while the sun goes down, wonder at a great performance or a great meal shared. For the two of us, 38 years of those trump the aggravation and the stressful moments.

Frighteningly, I’m about to turn the age I always thought a subject for humor – after all, there is even a song.

When I get older, losing my hair,
Many years from now.
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine?

If I’d been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four.

We knew each other when this song was still part of FM rotation – when we counted our ages in fewer than half those years. Between then and now, more has happened than I can describe – both in the “outside world” and in our home. And I know the answer to the question. Yes – from me and from him. When we’re sixty-four and, God willng, long after that.