Travel – Page 2 – Don't Gel Too Soon

Farewell to Friends

This is me with my new sister Ramona. We met when we were looking to share a car to Mont-Saint-Michele and she and her amazing husband decided to join us. We have had the best week. Remarkable how quickly relationships form in a travel environment.

Now she is returning to her home in Beirut with her husband to await a new grandchild due within days of ours. We had a wonderful time with them. Thanks my friend! And send pictures.

“There’s not a word yet, for old friends who’ve just met.”
― Jim Henson,

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.

July 25, 2008: BARACK OBAMA and BERLIN: WHAT WE SHOULD and CAN BE

First I got this email from a young friend: "LOVED IT – Just brilliant and I am happy to vote again." Then I watched The Speech again early this morning on C-SPAN and marveled at the reaction of 200,000 Berliners in a city that has been, in recent years, a tough room for American leaders. We've spenta lot of time in Berlin, so I know the city; in my parents' lifetime it was the capital of the most racist country in the world but now it's urbane, cerebral and pretty sophisticated, with a stunning history and a development we've watched throughout the last ten years that is unparalleled. War(and communist)-ruined buildings and just plain ugly ones have finally been replaced by gleaming new market and skyscraper squares, there's fabulous mass transit as well as renewed activity in its two opera houses and many theaters and ballet companies. OH and enough museums to keep you busy for months. Just the kind of place to be particularly hostile to a president like George Bush.

So what did Senator Obama bring that made the difference? David Brooks was pretty harsh in the NYTimes: " Obama has benefited from a week of good images. But substantively, optimism without reality isn’t eloquence. It’s just Disney." To be fair, I guess it can sound that way. The reality, to me though, is that after eight years of a president of whom we could not be proud and whose policies, war, rhetoric and attitude shoved our allies far from our side, a bit of warmth and solidarity is a legitimate introduction. Beyond that, the most profound thing about the speech, in my view, wasn't Obama but the response to him. Sure, Europe is liberal and politically correct (except, often, about their own immigrants, unfortunately) and a black candidate (even half) for president in the US is attractive, but it's more than that. It looked, at least to me, like Europeans have been longing for a United States they can believe in again; that perhaps part of the reason Europeans have been so angry at us is that beneath the rubble of the Bush years, we still represent a promise and ideal that Europe has been furious that we've abandoned.

Of course, I could be projecting my own heartbreak over Abu Ghraib and the Patriot Act and all the other profanities done in our name; at the horrific lack of inspired leadership both at home and abroad just after 9/11, at the war (How could it happen again – after Vietnam; the same lessons never learned, the same hubris?), at the craven attitude toward energy and life at the bottom end of our economic ladder – at all of it. But I don't think so. Rather, it seems that under all the anger Europeans have manifested toward the United States, they, like us, want an American leader they can believe in. An America they can believe in. And Barack Obama is about as close to that is you can get without moving to another dimension.

The foundation laid by that inspiration will get us, and our old friends newly re-engaged, through the terrible, tough days ahead. Without a leadership of hope and belief, natural allies outside our borders will be lost to us, as they so sadly have been these past years. And as Senator Obama reminded us, we can't afford that. Not now.

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.

Last Day in London, for Now, and What Did I Find?

This bench sits along the Thames, on the South Bank, between Waterloo and BlackFriars Bridges. It’s a nice bench. Since we leave London tomorrow I had my last walk along the river today. And it gave me a gift

I walked around it, to sit down and say goodbye to the river, the bridges and London – found this:

It’s been a lovely time. We fly in the morning. See you on the other side.

Hooray for Justice Sotomayor but I’m in London SO Let’s Look at These

You’re going to love Borough Market, right across from the London Bridge Tube Station and just off the Thames.

Amazing olive bread

Do you believe these? Gorgeous! (My favorite picture)

Well,that’s that. Here we go out, take a left and hit the Thames River Walk. It was a lovely day.

You Mean There Are Jewish Neighborhoods in PARIS????

I’ve been to Paris probably close to 15 times in the past 30 years; never has it disappointed me. But until I began living a more Jewishly observant life, I’d missed a huge part of it. Like virtually every other city in Europe, Paris has a “Jewish neighborhood.” Like virtually every other city in the world – (if they hadn’t been thrown out altogether) the Jews moved out of their old neighborhoods, as they did on the Lower East Side, leaving their stores and delis behind.
This neighborhood in Paris, in the Marais, is somewhere in the middle. Plenty of Jews are still there; plenty more have moved on. But the services, and especially the restaurants, groceries and bookstores — and several synagogues large and small — they’re still there. This is the bookstore where you can buy prayer books and Jewish history and Shoah books as well as candle sticks and other Jewish necessities. It’s not far from a primary school whose front entrance includes a tribute to the more than 100 Jewish children seized there during the German occupation of Paris, never to be seen again. Stand outside that door and you can’t help but imagine how it must have looked and sounded and felt that day.

On a lighter note though, since we’re Jews, there’s food. This is one of two competing falafel stands on Rue de Rosiers and the lines were enormous on this hot, sunny Sunday. In addition to residents and Jewish tourists wandering by, whole tour groups arrived to try the native fare. It was quite festive, actually.

Oh, and there’s a photo missing here. I was scared to take it. We were approaching the former home of Jo Goldenberg, the legendary Jewish restaurant in the neighborhood, internationally known even before it was bombed in the summer of 1982, killing six and injuring several others. It’s gone now, a victim of the times, but as we neared the empty building, police sirens in the ooh-aah sound European sirens make, blasted us, close by. They screeched to a halt outside and a policeman cautiously approached a bag siting on the stoop outside the former deli. Clearly frightened, he gingerly picked up the bag to put into the police van and move it from the area, now so full of tourists and shoppers. Unnerved, my husband and I sped away.

So you don’t get a photo. But I can tell you that the cop looked very scared. And just so you don’t think this is a lot of melodrama, I was in a synagogue in Vienna EXACTLY one week before it was bombed. I had my young son in his stroller. That next week, a mother died throwing herself on top of her child – in his stroller. So there’s more to hanging around a famous Jewish neighborhood that candlesticks and shwarma.

One more thing. It looks as if, again, like the Lower East Side, gentrification may complete the job that first persecution and then upward mobility began. Last year, a story appeared in AFP – the French wire service, with the headline: “Paris Jewish quarter fights tourism, commerce in battle for soul.” Fashion retailers and other high-end businesses want to be in what is now the “cool” neighborhood and let some of that cache rub off on them. The Jews? Well they’re fighting to keep their institutions and to remain a distinct community, but there’s no guarantee they’ll succeed. Until then, the Marais, in addition to great coats, shoes, bags and jewelry, remains the “Jewish neighborhood.” So get there while you can.

Paris is a Movable Feast – and We Are Making the Most of It

Ernest Hemingway is pretty passe these days, but in his wonderful memoir of his time in Paris, he wrote something that returns to me every time I’m here “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast.” And so it is. Right here it’s going to rain, and the sky is far more grey-blue forbidding than I could get the camera to record, and it’s around 4 PM and we’ve been walking since 10 AM this morning. And we haven’t really done anything – not in the way tourists go into museums and enrich themselves. For us these streets, and the Seine, and the beautiful old buildings and boulevards – well, they’re the richest of all.

It’s pouring rain on the bookstores of Boulevard St. Michel on the Left Bank near the Sorbonne, but that doesn’t stop the book shoppers. Paris is a city of readers, one where great writers have been held as heroes and mourned by the city – and much of the entire nation when they died. There are many restaurants and cafes on the Left Bank, which had been home not only to Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein and Sylvia Beach but also to Simone de Beauvoir and Jean Paul Sartre and so many others. They are crammed with people all the time – whether it’s the Deux Magots or the Brasserie Lipp or Cafe de Flore because these places have an enormous literary history and those who visit here know that these are the places to visit even if they’ve never read The Second Sex or The Sun Also Rises or even The Great Gatsby.

Or maybe they just know, like these two troubadours, that Paris, when you’re young, (or, hopefully, any other age) is still a gift. So many have already written better words about the indelible impact of this lovely place; I’m really just here to agree with them.

It’s Pretty Different for an American in Europe With President Obama in the White House

At the big Paris flea market, Marche aux Puces St-Ouen de Clignancourt, which takes up several city blocks, this portrait was among the items for sale. I’ve seen people reading Dreams from My Fatheron the Metro (seriously, the guy next to me, honest) and everyone wants to talk about him. What a difference!

One of the Many Reasons to Love Christopher Wren: St. Paul’s Cathedral

It’s late and I’m tired from a probably too-long walk and probably too much work. So I’ll leave you with this picture of the wonderful St. Paul’s Cathedral, taken from the very center of the Millenium Pedestrian Bridge that crosses the river from the Tate Modern to this old masterpiece and the bustling legal community close by.