Michael Willhoite: Travels

Wales, Italy 2006

2008-07-21T15:42:00.000-07:00

Christmas Day, 2006
I arrived in Manchester as planned, no hitches, on Christmas morning and was greeted by Peter and Joe. It was a perfect flight -- no upper respiratory problems, a terrific book in hand, no nasty terrorists putting a damper on things.
The first day several old friends came by the house, and by eleven, I was ready for bed. On Monday, Boxing Day, Peter, Joe, Lee, and Peter's sister Maureen and I drove to Llandudno, on Colwyn Bay, for a Christmas pantomime. [For the uninitiated, this is a show with songs and horridly corny jokes, and based on a children's story or tale from English history. No miming is involved.] This one was "Aladdin." It was spectacularly produced, filled with spectacle, lighting effects and glorious costumes. I enjoyed it, but Peter pronounced it, with a sniff, as having no soul. Still, it was a great day trip and I loved it.
On Thursday, Peter's own panto opened. This was "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs." Four of the boys from "Oliver" were in it, as were four other actors I have performed with. And I knew several of the backstage and box office crew from previous visits. Liz Watkins, one of the ushers, asked me to come the next day and sell programs, which I did. [One has to pay for programs in Britain, whereas they're free in the USA.] My old friend Ruth, also working in programs, has invited me out for some as-yet-unspecified day to go to a museum and have lunch. The British hospitality has already begun in earnest...
"Snow White..." was lots of fun, and my friend Steve Davies, who played the Dame, was hilarious perfection. The Dame, I should explain, is a drag role, each appearance onstage in a more and more outlandish costume. Steve was gloriously over-the-top, and wowed the crowd. (The remainder of this journal comes from my emails home.)

Dear Friends and Family,
Sorry I haven't been reporting in with any regularity, but most of my time has been spent either reading or writing or illustrating. Last week I finished all the finished rough drawings for "My Dad Did Something Bad" and began the first draft of the new picture book, "Calvin and the Girls." Now that I'm back from LONDON, I can take it back up again.
On Saturday morning Peter and I were given a ride to Chester and let off at the train station. Peter's nephew had found (online, naturally) excellent, cheap seats, and the train ride went smoothly.
On arrival, Peter and I walked a few blocks to the Euston Square Hotel, a sparkling new hotel near Bloomsbury. After check-in we walked down into the West End. Peter wanted to see shows; I wanted merely to let London seep into my spirit. We parted at the theatre ticket booth in Leicester Square, where he had gotten tickets to a matinee and an evening show, and I struck off on my own.
Peter is a picky eater, so I took the chance to have a Chinese meal while on my own. Mr. Wu's, however, was not a particularly felicitous choice, but it was cheap and plentiful. The General Gao's chicken was more evocative of the good general's saddle, but no matter: I was pleased to get any Chinese food at all. Afterward, I sniffed around the Chinese markets to find a tin of lichee tea for Peter's partner David (currently on a world cruise), and after about a dozen tries, was finally successful.
From there I made a beeline to the National Gallery and spent a few delightful hours there, longer than I usually do. Then I hit the many secondhand bookstores on Charing Cross Road, buying nothing, but enjoying the process of rooting around. I also found a delectable little cul-de-sac, a court lined with many antiquarian bookshops, a new discovery.
I met Peter at 7:30 in front of the Apollo Theatre, to find out when his show (Jessica Lange in "The Glass Menagerie") let out, then began scouting the restaurants of Soho for my evening meal. After discarding an inordinate amount of prospects, I hit pay dirt.
Melati is a restaurant on Great Windmill Street, specializing in Indonesian, Malaysian, and Singapore cuisine. I had no reservation, so was sent up several flights of stairs to an attic dining area, filled with dining parties, and settled down with a novel. The waiter brought me a dish of mahoy goreng, a glorious feast comprised of rice noodles, sliced fish cake, chicken, egg, and shrimp. It was quite spicy (which Peter would have hated!) but deliciously enjoyable. I washed it down with a Tiger beer, lingered as long as I could, and eventually left to meet Peter. We walked back to the hotel, both convinced that we'd had the better time.
Sunday morning we walked half a mile or so to the British Museum, which, astonishingly, Peter had never visited. We stayed for a couple of hours, marvelling (mostly) at the Greek and Assyrian ancient art. Peter was duly impressed and I was glad to return to this treasure house. Just before leaving, we spent a bit of time in the fabulous Reading Room, where Karl Marx spent so much time writing his (unworkable) social theories. It is massive, a huge cavern of a place, and oddly, completely open to any visitors.
We had arranged to meet Tony Younger for lunch, meeting under the great porch of Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Tony is an old friend of Peter and David's, and has hosted Peter and me twice on visits to London. He is a handsome ex-military man of 77, an American's perfect paradigm of the pukka Englishman. On the way to the restaurant, Tony accidently jostled a crazy old lady who was trying to pass. He apologized, but she sailed into a symphony of invective, and he was unable to palliate her. For a full three minutes she railed at us, telling Tony (a native Londoner, incidentally) "We don't want your kind here!" We had apparently run into one of these pathetic street crazies. After a while we were able to scrape her off and toddled off down the Strand.
The restaurant, Salieri, was one I'd been to before with my cousin Dana, her daughter and son-in-law. Over-the-wall decor, perfect service, and impeccable food. I had a grilled tuna steak with steamed vegetables in lemon butter -- wonderful. Tony, despite our protestations, treated us.
Afterward, Peter and I walked to the Thames and crossed Waterloo Bridge. We strolled along the south bank toward the Globe Theatre, stopping at the Tate museum for another exposure to art, more adventurious, edgier than the previous day's. On exiting, we walked across the beautiful Hunderford footbridge and ended up in front of St. Paul's cathedral, whose size and magnificence I always find newly impressive. We walked back up Fleet Street, and as the evening darkened, toward the theatre district. I was to have my Christmas present from Peter this evening. First we refreshed ourselves with tea and scones at a delightful patisserie in Soho, Valerie's.
My gift was Sondheim's "Follies" in concert, an all-star extravaganza at the London Palladium (Judy Garland's last venue). I'd never been in this theatre before, the grandest and most voluptuously outfitted theatre in London. The show was, without going into too much detail, magnificent, one of the most thrilling evenings I've spent in a theatre in years. The highlight was an American performer, Kim Criswell, singing "I'm Still Here," which was also the first act curtain. I never expect to hear a better rendition; this song I know so well might have been freshly minted this very evening, a one-time-only occasion.
Walking back to the hotel, my euphoria kept my mind off my physical weariness. Peter estimated that we had walked over seven miles that day.
We took the train back home this morning. It had been a virtually perfect visit, with London under blue cloudless skies the entire time, mildly cool rather than cold -- perfection.
It is Monday night. Next Sunday I fly to Venice for a week, and after that, a visit with my nephew Toby in Lecce, a baroque jewel of a town in the heel of Italy's boot. I think I'd better begin resting for the revels...

Venice, Sunday, Feb 11
Peter and Joe got me up at 3 a.m. (groan!) and I was at the airport in plenty of time. The connection from Treviso airport to Venice, which I’d been sweating, was a breeze. But at my arrival at Piazzale Roma, I hit a majnor snag. I’d spent my last pounds on the bus ticket to Venice and naturally hoped that I would be able to get cash from an ATM. No Such luck. Every ATM I tried failed to recognize my password, a first for me as getting money from them on past trips had been child’s play. Alas, not this time. For a full hour, panic growing, I scampered about trying various banks. (Try scampering with a heavy bag in tow!) Finally, near despair, I found a money exchange at the train station, and was able to get an advance on my credit card -- actually relieved to pay an exorbitant 19% interest rate.
I made the wizest investment possible in having reserved a blue Venice card. This enabled me to ride public transportation and use the public WCs free for the entire week. The Vaporetto, the gloriously reliable conveyance plying the Venetian waters 24 hours a day, runs on average every ten minutes, both ways. After midnight it’s every 25 minutes. I made up for my investment by the second day. And only twice was I asked to show it.
I’d had no luck finding a hotel in Venice proper, but had to make do with the Hotel Buon Pesce on the Lido. It turned out to be perfect, on the north side of the island, and a very short bus ride to the Vaporetto stop. As it turned out, I loved the Lido. It’s a resort in summer and not at all lively in winter, but it suited me perfectly. I’ll stay there on any future visits to the city. The desk clerk was Annamaria, a plump, affable and helpful girl with thick glasses. She was a joy to see every day.
My room was fine, clean, and decorated with a nod to the 18th century. It was also quiet, looking out over parkland.
After dropping everything off, I was eager to get back to the city. The Vaporetto deposited me at the San Zaccaria stop just as the fog was rolling back out to sea. Another sea confronted me in Piazza S. Marco: a torrent of people, in town for Carnivale. Many were in masks, others in full fig, every kind of costume you could imagine. Some were homemade, but others were clearly the products of fine shops, or rentals. I snapped many pictures.
The reason I was in Venice in the first place was to shoot material for my project of painting Venice at night. Some of the day shots were adaptable, but mainly I had to wait till dusk to hunt up my subjects. My hours were spent hunting up picturesque squares, campielli, and richly bedizened celebrants, but as this was my third trip to Venice, I didn’t mind.

Monday, Feb. 12
Breakfast at the Buon Pesce was lush outlay, but during the week’s stay I stuck mostly to granola and hardboiled eggs. The servers, young firls with very good English, were quite generous with the coffee when they realized my capacity for the stuff. I ate well and thus had little need for large lunches.
In my perambulations around San Marco and beyond I found a shop featuring something completely new and surprising. One candymaker, displayed marzipan in the window unlike any other I’d ever seen. Instead of the typical fruit shapes, there were all sorts of raw and cooked seafood, hors d’oevres, devilled eggs, olives and very realistic lemons. I knew that this trip might pack on the pounds, so I resisted with the greatest difficulty.
Crossing the bridge at the church of San Moise, I saw a gondolier setting out with another boatload of passengers, and I was all but certain that he was Lino, who had given me my first gondola ride fourteen years ago. He looked just like the man I remembered, but with the addition of that many years. He was already to far away before I could call out to him and find out.
I ended the day in the northern sestiere of Cannareggio, ravenous for seafood and eager for anything. I found a lovely little place, Ristorante al Gazebo. The gnocchi in salmon cream nearly lifted me into a whole new level of consciousness; the mixed fried seafood just about finished off the job. A half-liter of white wine coddled me into bliss and I lingered over the meal as long as I could It was the best seafood I was to have on the whole trip, though I sought constantly to find its equal.
When I finally, and reluctantly, emerged into the night, the gentle rain which had started earlier had by now developed into a steady flood. The nearest Vaporetto stop was about a quarter of a mile away, so I was forced to dash madly from one awning to another -- though I got soaked anyway. But it had all been worth it.

Tuesday, Feb. 13
Having explored Venice on previous visits, I determined this time to scout out some of the outlying islands. I’d visited Murano on my last trip, but I now had a quest to complete. Murano produces art glass in prodigious quantities: every creature you can find on the earth is reproduced in glass, along with all kinds of stemware, art glass, et cetera. I wanted to find a hummingbird for my sister Brenda, who collects them. Surely on Murano I would find what I was looking for.
No such luck.
In the first shop I spoke with the owners, who luckily gave me the right word to work with: I sketched a hummingbird in my notebook. “Ah, colibri!” they said. So I proceeded to look EVERYWHERE, in virtually every shop I could find. There were Disney characters, vehicles, animals and birds of every type – but no hummingbirds. Rhinos, elephants, clowns, Popeye and Olive Oyl, crocodiles, cuttlefish, sharks and rays, beetles and dragonflies, owls and penguins, snails and dinosaurs, 18th century dandies in full feather – everything but the Budapest String Quartet – and hummingbirds. Finally I settled on a fine little singing bird, very delicately wrought with exquisite detail.
Some of the work done on Murano is gorgeous, and yes, some of it is the worst kind of junk. In one shop, which seemed to specialize in the very best work, I was surprised to find the vilest piece of all: a clown sitting on a toilet. Loathing clowns even in full dress, I fled in horror.
On Murano I found one of the loveliest churches in the whole lagoon, the church of San Donato, and nearby was a restaurant that lured me in, Busa alla Torre. The owner and headwaiter, a mountainous redhead turning rapidly grey, with a formidable beard, took me in hand and provided a feast.
Back in the city, I wandered about shooting various subjects, and found a perfect city square, the Campo SS Apostoli. Everything is here, not just for the tourists: newstands, a pet shop, a gloveseller at a stand, gondoliers lounging about waiting for fares, trees, a venerable old cobbled-together church, a handful of small restaurants. Old facades both stately and squalid – or both -- look down on the bustling life. A real people’s square.
I did a bit more shooting and shopping, and set out for dinner, at the one place it was necessary to stop. On my first trip to Venice I’d discovered a small family run restaurant, Trattoria Ai Cugnai. It was run by two middle-aged ladies, and on my first visit the place had won my heart. I returned three days later in company with two Englishwomen I’d met and we were treated as royalty. On my last trip to Venice, in 1999, I was remembered, and warmly embraced. Incredibly, now eight years later, I was instantly recognized and received kisses Italian style (once on each cheek) by the ladies. They had aged, of course, and one seemed quite frail, but I was in heaven at being remembered with evident fondness.
As I was dining fairly early, the only other patrons in the room were a gay male couple several tables away who smiled at me and seemed curious as to whether I was also a member of the tribe.

Wednesday, Feb. 14
I hadn’t really explored the Lido properly, so I set out on foot. First stop: the island’s cemetery, including one of the oldest Jewish cemeteries in Europe. Then the beach on the south side of the island, home to the great resort hotels. The grandest and most venerable, the Grand Hotel Des Bains, was shuttered for the season, but the beach in front of it was open. I strolled about for half an hour, finding a few delicate shells, then strolled through the back streets to the S. Elisabetta vaporetto stop. There I caught a bus that took me almost to the other end of the island, from where I walked back to the center. I sighted not one but two old ladies in mink coats, riding bicycles. Women here would be the despair of PETA, and a bicycle seems not the slightest bit out of character, no, not even while wrapped in fur.
On the vaporetto, I got out at the S. Elena stop, to explore part of Venice that tourists never see (like most of the Lido). I wandered north through the Public Gardens, uncharacteristically green and spacious for Venice. The rest of the day I shot possible future paintings, and stumbled on the small Fundamenta Cavagnis, which I’d shot in fog at dusk on my last visit, and subsequently painted.
For dinner that night I’d intended to dine at Ristorante Al Zucco (the pumpkin), a highly recommended boite in S. Polo. Getting there from the S. Stae vaporetto stop, I discovered the Campo S. Giacomo da L’Orio, which had been deep in water when I’d seen it in company with Kathy and Marie. It reminded me to be grateful that on this trip there was no acqua alta (the high waters that routinely plague the city) to trouble me.
Al Zucco’s recommendation must have been well-deserved; it was booked up. Nearby was the Trattoria al Ponte, so I sat down for what turned out to be a true feast. Visually, too: the waiter was a deeply attractive, pony-tailed blond who seemed determined to make my experience a memorable one. For appetizer I ordered a Venetian specialty, sarde in saor. Sardines, vinegar-marinated in fried onions and served cold sounds off-putting, but it was delectable. My main course was cuttlefish (in its own ink) served with two bolsters of polenta, another Venetian specialty. It’s an entirely black and white dish, and surprisingly tasty. All this was washed down with a carafe of the local white wine.
I walked slowly back to S. Stae through the deserted alleyways, impressed as always by the safety of Venice even at night. The mysterious, winding streets, the ancient wellheads illuminated by moonlight, the utter silence of the city under the stars, are like a drug.
I sat outside on my vaporetto ride back to the Lido, feasting on the beauty of the illuminated palazzi on the Grand Canal and trying with little success to get useable shots. At the hotel, footsore and weary from my long day, I sank into the hottest tub I could draw, poured a glass of prosecco, and read. Bliss.

Thursday, Feb. 15
I set out with little purpose other than to shoot Venice and see some art. Venice is unique, a living work of art in itself. An artist or sensualist (and I am both) with an eye for detail is the ideal visitor to the city. I let my sight bathe in the welter of carved detail, discolored walls, oddments of ornament, and unexpected architectural whimsies. Lunch was at Rosa Rossa (Red Rose), a pizzeria I’d liked on my first visit 14 years ago.
The first of only two museums that I visited on this trip was the Peggy Guggenheim collection, where I’d been before. This was the third time but my pleasure in it was undiminished. In fact, while here I began reading a fascinating biography of the lady, doubly enhancing my appreciation of the collection.
I returned to the Lido a bit early and decided, as a change of pace, to have Chinese food. The fractured English translations on the menu were highly amusing (like wanton soup; does it splash into your lap and have sex with you?) but the food was plentiful and quite surprisingly good. I began with excellent steamed dumplings. The cashew chicken and fried rice were utterly unlike their American counterparts, but fragrant, light, and flavorful.
I was back at the hotel by ten and finished my book (Best American Essays 2006).

Friday, Feb. 16
Today was my chance to explore the outer islands. The boat took me from Murano to Burano first, a voyage of some twenty minutes. Burano is a quaint fishing village specializing in lace-making, though I understand today a good bit of its product for sale originates in Hong Kong. The artists themselves are dying out and the tradition itself is therefore endangered. However, I did see several ancient crones bent over their work. Unlike Venice, the natives paint their houses bright colors, some quite garish; the effect is charming. The Buranese are friendlier, perhaps, than the Venetians. I spent a couple of hours there and then took the vaporetto to Torcello, remote from Venice and close to the mainland.
There is very little to see here, but what there is is choice. Torcello seems ideal farmland, though not much seems to be under active cultivation. Some pugnacious geese and a couple of tethered goats were the only livestock I saw on the long walk from the vaporetto stop. There is a hotel, a museum, a couple of restaurants, and a shop or two. In the main square however are two of the crown jewels of Italian architecture. The church of S. Fosca is small but lovely, set among cedars. The interior is all circular spaces, simple and profoundly lovely. The only other visitor was a middle-aged, mustachioed Greek woman who kept surreptitiously snapping pictures, officially verboten. I forbore to do so myself.
This was a harder resolution to maintain in the main cathedral, Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta de Torcello. Here too, a couple of camera buffs kept shooting the artwork, glancing furtively around to avoid detection.
At the far end of the basilica is a vast mosaic of various saints, Jesus and Mary.Typically, the anonymous 13th century artists lavished their most inspired work on the sinners undergoing the fires of damnation. It’s ironic how the art of Christianity, supposedly a religion of love, adores dwelling on pain and punishment.
The masterpiece of the church, among so many, is a chapel at the right, decorated by an 11th century mosaic of Jesus, the apostles, and a couple of archangels. Some have called this the greatest treasure in all Venice and they may be right. The work is exquisite and somehow preserved in all its original glory, a brilliant and elaborate expression of faith in the Byzantine style.
On the way back to the vaporetto -- slowly, slowly -- I conversed with a shopkeeper, who was as enchanted by the glorious day as I was, a sapphire, unclouded sky overhead, warm and lazy. Tranquillo e bello.
Dinner that night was at Al Vecio Portal, which I settled on out of sheer weariness. It was simply there. I ordered a simple menu turistico from the dark sexy brute of a waiter, a plate of spaghetti bolognese, a roast breast of chicken and a salad peppery with arugula. In mid-dinner, a couple came in in 18th century dress. The lady in green had the utmost trouble getting her panniered skirt through the tables, but sat down opposite me, where I admired her beauty and her rich costume. The plumes of her hat bobbed merrily as she and her companion laughed through the meal. Versailles vacationing in Venice.

Saturday, Feb. 17
My last full day in Venice I spent most of my time at Ca’ Pesaro, a grand palazzo converted in 1897 into a wonderful modern art museum. I hadn’t seen it before. Most of the collection is academic work drawn from past Venice Biennales, lushly over-the-top, but a good deal of it is quite forward looking. I specially liked a lovely Bonnard nude, and some Matisse prints. There were some oddities. I’d never seen a Carl Larsson painting in a museum. But here was an apple-cheeked serving girl, a merry misfit among all these lush Mediterranean beauties.
There was an oriental collection on the top floor but it wasn’t open until two, so I settled down in the café with my Guggenheim book. The collection turned out to be hardly worthy of the wait, but it was nice to sit, anyway. The rest of the afternoon I shot as much of paintable Venice as I could, then wandered in the direction of Piazza San Marco.
I rather like crowds, but this was ridiculous. During the week the carnival celebrants had been plentiful, but this evening one could hardly move among the cheek-by-jowl crowd. I stood it for twenty minutes or so and then squeezed my way out of the throng to find a restaurant. I found another with a tourist menu but lightning did not strike twice: this was the only truly indifferent meal of the entire trip. I returned to the Lido for packing and an early night.

Sunday morning I was not awakened in time by the front desk, so had to forego a shower and rushed to meet the cab which had been called for me. He got me to the vaporetto stop in hardly more than a minute, and the boat arrived shortly. I was sad to leave the place, yet eager to get back to begin the next adventure. The bus to Treviso was on time and everything went smoothly all the way back to Liverpool. Peter greeted me.
That night we were joined by Peter’s sister Maureen, Steve and Andrew, Lee Hassett and a young man named Matthew, Ruth and her husband and daughter. Dinner was at the carvery in Lavister, a delightful end to a long, long day.

I returned from Venice on Sunday afternoon, only to get up at four the next morning for another trip to Italy. Peter should be canonized for his willingness to be rousted out of bed in the middle of the night. This time I was going to visit my nephew Toby and Francesca, the Italian girl he has fallen in love with. I adore Italy, and yet I’d never been south of Rome before. I looked forward to a grand adventure.

Monday, Feb. 19
This seemed truly to be one of the longest days in memory. I could only get to the Bari airport via Paris and Milan, so I was prepared for long waits in airports. Peter got me to the Manchester airport easily and I checked my bag long before the crowd arrived. This time I was wise enough to arm myself with plenty of euros before leaving Britain. The flight to Paris was on time and gave me over an hour to make my connection. Yes, everything was moving along splendidly.
Paris lay under a blanket of fog, however, and my flight to Milan was delayed a bit. Then delayed a bit more. Then cancelled altogether. I realized that I would miss my connection to Bari, so I frenetically sought help from a lovely gamine at the help desk. She efficiently routed me through Rome, but I was to arrive two hours later than expected. It remained only to contact Toby so he wouldn’t give up on me and return to Lecce, an hour and a half drive from Bari.
I was unable to get through, but I hoped I could phone him in Rome; Alitalia had other plans. The plane was late and I had to sprint through the airport like a fox with hounds in pursuit, all the way into another terminal. It was nip and tuck and I sank into my seat only moments before the plane doors were slammed shut. No time for a phone call.
At Bari I discovered that Alitalia had misplaced my bag. I finally managed to contact Toby and it was a joy to see him striding into the airport to greet me. He was willing to wait for a second flight from Rome to arrive. Still no bag, but we were assured that it would come eventually and I would be contacted. We began the drive home.
Southern Italy at night is magical. A purple sky, palm trees, soft lights, a new experience ahead, and one of my dearest friends with me: nirvana. We drove home and arrived quite late; luckily Francesca was still up.
Francesca is a petite girl with short black curly hair and a smile that could melt ice. I warmed to her immediately and the next few days only confirmed my first impression. I was to meet her family and friends, and of the entire group, she was the only one of us to speak fluently both in Italian and English. Toby is still learning Italian and my own is woefully limited. Yet any difficulties we had in communicating were unimportant and merely added to the merriment. I marvel at the patience of Italians.

Tuesday, Feb. 20.
I woke from my 9-hour sleep to be find that Toby had already been out to buy me a toothbrush and razor. Francesca, a student at the Universita di Lecce, had already gone. Toby took me to a charming café nearby and we had coffee and dangerously delicious pastries, served by a handsome young barman with lushly black eyes. Add ears and a tail and you would have had a perfect satyr.
Afterward we walked through the Centro Storico, I snapping pictures one after another. Lecce is a national treasure, called the Florence of the South because of its rich heritage of baroque architecture. Buildings swarm with detail, putti and angels and demons and miraculous beasts in the easily workable local calcareous stone. The origins of the barocco leccese are obscure, but they differ from the creamy, flowing Roman style. It was originally thought to be Spanish in influence, but is apparently not. In the center of the city is a semi-exposed Roman amphitheatre, and a column with the city’s patron saint, S. Oronzo, perched so high even the pigeons left him alone.
Near the central piazza is the antiquarian bookshop of Niceta (Nico) Maggi and Mario Cazzato. These neighbors of Francesca’s parents are the gay couple Toby was eager to introduce me to. Only Mario was in the shop today. He is a handsome man of 52, with the confident Italian facial features of an opera singer; he shares some of the facial characteristics of both Placido Domingo and the late Richard Tucker. He greeted me warmly in the Italian style, kisses on both cheeks. I observed throughout the visit that even if one is parted from a friend or family for a couple of hours, this greeting is repeated. Is this a southern Italian custom, or have I noticed it only because this was my first experience of Italian family life? No matter; I fell easily into the custom.
Soon after, Francesca picked us up at the Public Garden and we had lunch at Trattoria Nonna Tetti, a charming hole in the wall near one of the city’s five remaining gates. The menu was extensive and even included horse (I respectfully declined). Instead I had the fantasia di Nonna, quill pasta with tomatoes, mushrooms, cheeses and some sort of ground meat. In addition, Toby ordered a vast selection of vegetables and antipasti – too much food, really, but all delightful. The best was braised chicory (which I’ve only had raw, in salads), mildly bitter and drenched in olive oil.

All during this trip I sampled Pugliese regional cooking. Without really getting much of a handle on it I can report that the main characteristics are a certain spiciness, an emphasis on local produce, and a full, rich intensity of flavor. We had water with this meal, but later I had some of the local red wine. It is distributed in jugs, then transferred to carafes at home. I am convinced now that the Italians export lesser wines and keep the best for themselves – perfectly understandable. The guidebooks say that Puglia is known for the high quality of its wines and olive oil. I believe it.
After lunch, we dropped Francesca off at the university, on the outskirts of town, and went back to the house. I read and rested while Toby ran off to his Italian lesson. He returned quickly: the class was cancelled because of some holiday. He took me out of the historical center into the commercial district to buy a shirt. I was astonished to see Lecce unfold before me: a prosperous modern city with beautifully appointed shops. We stopped first at a pasticceria. Toby conversed voluably with the owner, and it was a joy to see my nephew using his Italian completely without self-consciousness. To his disappointment, they were out of their specialty. This, Toby tells me, is a fig with an almond inserted into the center, then dipped in chocolate. At the COIN department store, I bought a perfect shirt, dark purplish blue with sunflowers lightly embroidered in the same color. A good dressy shirt.
Francesca fixed dinner that night, a blissful concoction of quill pasta and orrechieri, meatballs, green and black olives – terrifico. I was stuffed, but she then produced an additional dish, a meatloaf cooked in a skillet, stuffed with cheeses and olives.

Wednesday, Feb. 21
Che un giorno gioioso! We awoke to a clear blue sky and a temperature of about 65. To my relief, my bag had arrived. Toby drove me down the coast to see Otranto. We took the shore route, and the Adriatic was bluer than I could ever have imagined, clean and clear. I was able to see a good bit of the southern Italian countryside, endless olive orchards studded with trulli, a local hut made of stones piled together. In the vineyards and orchards they are used for storage, but may also be gathered together to serve as homes, each hut given the functions of a separate room.
The land is sere yet fertile, similar to southern California, and probably of like climate. Huge prickly pear colonies abound, the cacti as high as an elephant’s eye.
This was an inlet where one could see little grottos carved into the seaside cliffs, some created by humans, others by the actions of the rough waves. Toby led me to a hidden grotto, the water below a dazzling limpid turquoise, accessible by steps carved into the rock. It must be, when not visited by tourists, an ideal swimming hole. I have seldom seen such impressive natural beauty.
We drove further south through forests of eucalyptus, umbrella pine and palm. Otranto, halfway down the coast to the end of the heel of Italy’s boot, was somnolent in the warm midday sun. Almost everything was closed for siesta, but we found the Trattoria Glen Rose open. Again we ordered extravagantly: grilled vegetables, then fried appetizers that turned out to be stuffed green olives, covered with a batter and deep-fried. The main course was pasta studded with clams and mussels. We washed down this glorious repast with acqua frizzante.
Toby went back to the car to nap while I explored and photographed. Otranto is home to an ancient castle immortalized in a gothic novel by Horace Walpole. It must have been created early in the middle ages and is a most impressive pile sitting in full sunlight, small shrubs peeking out of the chinks in its walls. The deep moat is lined with grass, since very few conquering armies assault the town now. It was not always so, as I learned later. I strolled down to the marina and into the southern part of the town; the only living soul I saw was a goat who seemed quite curious to see this Yankee clicking a small magic box.
Eventually I returned to the car as arranged, and Toby took me to the cathedral. It is a magnificent church, plain inside, with a ceiling decorated in a gilded grid with elaborate carvings within. But the floor is the highlight. This 14th century mosaic, primitive in style, depicts a mad jumble of animals and people. The people were generally biblical characters, like Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel. The animals run the gamut from elephants and camels to chimeras, gryphons, and other mythological beasts, roaming about the floor or enthusiastically attacking one another. In a shop off to the side, Toby bought both of us posters of this floor. Along the sides of the cathedral are fragments of ancient frescoes, some indistinct, others blazing with color. In a cloister toward the back is a grisly memorial of an attack by Turks sometime in the middle ages. The marauding army entertained themselves by lopping off the heads of the citizenry in an orgy of blood lust. Displayed were at least two paintings of the event, and what I can only describe as an ossocollage. Behind three glass panels are arrangements of the bones of the departed, skulls grinning, the other bones framing them in fanciful patterns. Beneath an altar in the middle is a huge misshapen stone, but I never was able to determine its significance.
Just before we left a coffin was wheeled in and the church began to fill up with people. The departed must have been very popular, for there were many mourners, most of them under 30. When they had all filed in, Toby and I quietly slipped out. On the way back, Toby called Nico, Mario’s partner. We were to meet at Angela’s later.

The house that Francesca’s parents share with Mario and Nico is on Piazzetta Tancredi, opposite (what else?) an exuberantly ornate church. One enters a small green door into a courtyard with a flight of stairs. Angela was waiting for us at the top. She is an effusive, compact woman who apparently lives to make others feel welcome. She greeted us Italian style and we came into the house. It is a comfortable jumble, with many books and personal mementos very much in evidence, a home of thinking, reading people. From the dining room, we scaled a ladder onto the roof garden to see the views of the city. The garden is on several levels and it’s shared with Nico and Mario.
Back downstairs, we sat in the living room, snacking on guacamole that Toby and Francesca had made. Presently Nico came in. Nico is one of the most gloriously over-the-top personalities one could ever hope to meet. Some might consider him a bit too much; I did not. A quiff of dark hair, bright black eyes and a baroque way of expressing himself – I adored him from the first moment. Toby teased me into doing a caricature of him, and from then on, my pen was seldom in my pocket.
We went in to dinner and soon Mario joined us. Angela had prepared a magnificent explosion of pasta and love, and the wine flowed freely. Dinner lasted over two hours, one of the best evenings I have ever spent in Italy. It was like visiting the country for the first time. Una sera giocosa!
The tone of this evening was to be repeated over and over, to my absolute delight. Only Francesca was easily bilingual. Nico has a little English, Mario less. Toby was speaking quite voluably and my reticence disappeared to the point where my Italian was coming back. But the secret to the evening’s success was this: the lack of complete comprehension was of no importance. All of the meals we had together were a wild melange of food, wine, and Italian culture; sex was discussed as frankly as the weather – and at every meal! Not a party for the faint-hearted or timid. My straitlaced younger self would have cringed, but the older, Dionysian Michael adored it all.
When Toby and his brothers were children I used to entertain them by drawing. One game was for them to draw a squiggle, a random line or series of them, which I would transform into a cartoon. Toby very quickly re-introduced this and I drew, by my estimation, and over the next days, at least two hours. All were submitting squiggles, and I was even transforming their names. By the end of every meal I felt more Italian than Federico Fellini.

Thursday and Friday, Feb. 22-23
In the morning Toby and I went back to Nico and Mario’s Libreria del Sole, the antiquarian bookshop. At noon Toby, Nico and I walked through the city back to N&M’s house, closing up the shop – Italian style – for a three-hour siesta (or in our case, lunch). Nico and I chattered mostly about movies; he’s a huge film buff, as I am. Lunch included the local red wine, which I had to force myself NOT to overindulge in. Angela once again cooked, along with some dishes by Nico.
After lunch I walked a few blocks to the Archeological Museum. It is a national treasure, of course, and had more Greek pottery than I’ve seen in any other museum. The building is old, but the new interior is a masterpiece of design, leading the visitor easily through the collection. In addition to the Greek and Roman artifacts, there was a display of work from an Italian illustrator of children’s books, and a gallery featuring art “From di Chirico to Warhol.” Several Marilyn Monroes by Warhol were featured, and the star was also the subject of two huge, horrible adulatory paintings. The poor woman would be 81 today. Isn’t it time to let her quietly moulder away?
Just before dinner at Nico and Mario’s, Angelo, a childhood friend of Nico’s, joined us. He is currently staying with them while a student. Angelo is markedly shy, handsome with a boyish smile, and with a five-day stubble. The evening was again very much like the previous one, with Angelo now requesting drawings of angels. He too got a caricature, as N and M had earlier.
That night, Angela asked me to do a drawing of Darwin for a national journal of Rationalist thought, L’Ateo. Her husband Giacomo is the regional editor. In addition I did a caricature of Pope Benedict and a cartoon critical of the Church’s failure to address the subject of pedophile priests. These will go into future journals.
On the last night I brought my camera to commemorate this visit but the results are fuzzy and often out of focus. My grateful heart will remember the visit more accurately. I sadly said goodbye to my new friends and the delightful Angela, and we made an early night of it.

Saturday, Feb. 24
Toby got me up at four to drive me to the airport in Bari. I hated to leave him, but knew that I’d be back. This marvelous circle of friends and family have extracted a promise from me to stay longer next time. The plan is to return this summer for two or three weeks. I’ll be hosted by both houses. I can hardly wait.
Peter and Joe picked me up at the airport and that night I had another social engagement. Chris Dukes picked me up and we met Eric and Keith at a country inn, Pant yr Ochain, for a robust dinner. Unwilling to wean myself from Italy too quickly, I ordered pasta. The knee-bucklingly tasty treacle tart at the end brought me gently back to Britain.
The last week was pleasant, although by now I was ready to get back. On the last weekend, Peter and Joe and I drove to the Welsh coast, and on the way back, stopped at a Catholic shrine that you would have loved, St. Winefried’s Well. The saint allegedly had her head lopped off, but it was reattached, and the well was dedicated in her name. It was a lovely medieval structure, with the well and bathing pools inside.

Wales '86

2008-07-21T15:35:00.000-07:00

Wales 1986

Thursday-Friday, June 26-27
I took Thursday off from work – I had tons of jobs to do before my trip. Laurie Wayne came around at 4:15 to drive me to the airport. There was scandalous traffic all the way to Logan and I was on tenterhooks, though Laurie was placidity incarnate. On my flight to Heathrow I was surrounded by a chattering group of gardeners from San Francisco.
We landed at 6:20 a.m. and cleared customs in under 40 minutes. With luggage in tow I strolled for several miles to the area where I was welcomed by a beaming Michael Quarrier. We were on the road by 7:00 a.m. We drove out of the environs of London through a light ground mist which followed us all the way to Chester. We took the freeways out as far as Oxford, then through the town itself, too quickly. Then through the countryside up to Gloucester, stopping briefly on Birdlip Hill to gaze down into the Vale of Evesham, pale blue with mist, which Michael kept cursing but which I found deliciously atmospheric. We stopped at a pub, The Raven, and I had a pint of bitter and a sausage roll. By this time it was past noon. We arrived in Chester shortly, a lovely small city ringed by a beautifully preserved medieval wall. We drove to Michael’s home, a semidetached bungalow with a fine garden in back. Michael stoutly denies being much of a gardener; the yard belies such a claim.
I took a 3-hour nap in the afternoon, a good deal more refreshing than I would have expected. Michael woke me with a nice spot of tea, then we went into the center of Chester to walk around the wall. It was even more attractive than I expected. At the point where I started, a canal can be seen flowing far below the wall. At the first corner is a tower from which Charles I watched his army defeated by Cromwell’s forces. The progression around the city included sights of Chester cathedral, an elaborate clock celebrating Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, part of the older Roman wall, a splendid view of the River Dee, the hideous new police department building, the racecourse and the Watergate, in the wall’s west gate. It was a grand tour: Michael is a mine of information.
Home, Michael prepared a princely feed. Starting off with crab bisque, we went on to carrots and potatoes and heavenly stuffed quail. We finished off with an ice cream sundae, vanilla topped with chocolate chips and almonds, swimming in rich yellow Advokat, an eggnog liqueur.
Over port, crackers and cheese, we were joined by Peter Swingler and his partner David, a looker with fine long brown legs. We had a fine time and I went to bed tired but happy – and slept wonderfully.

Saturday, June 28

Michael woke me up with a brimming cup of coffee and the sly admission that he gone out to the Club, a gay bar, and gotten lucky. Indeed, his bit of luck was still upstairs. Michael went out to attend to his laundry and I went out to the living room, where I was soon joined by Michael’s trick. Tim is quite young and good looking, with thick, tousled hair, a nice amused-looking mouth bracketed with small dimples, pale eyes rimmed with black lashes. He had a nice body and engagingly sexy walk.
Michael came back and we dropped Tim downtown and drove to Wrexham in a roundabout way. And what a way! A short way out of Chester we were into Wales; the signs were now bilingual. We drove south and west into lovely hilly country. The higher we got, the fewer trees grew. By Horseshoe pass, a spectacular turn around a deep valley, most of the trees were below us. The scenery was delightful as we drove around and through Llangollen, then by a beautiful monastery, the Vale of the Cross.
We arrived in Wrexham and drove to Grove Park Little Theatre. A Saturday coffee was underway in the bar. Mona Stansfield greeted me warmly at the door. Present were Jenny Glover, as sweet and toasty as in Boston; Phil Edwards, plump, randy and funny; and his young lover Russell, a leggy redhead with a square jaw and green eyes and, emerging from tight white shorts, long muscular freckled legs. Peter and David came in later, as did Eluned Evans. Phil gave me a tour of the theatre. It’s bigger than Vokes, seats 204, with a well-raked auditorium. The theatre sits in the middle of the city and is painted an odd but pleasant mulberry color. It’s rather split- or multi-leveled, with dressing rooms in the basement, but the stage has no decent wing space at all. Midway up from the stage level to the entrance is a little tea bar. Upstairs beyond that is the bar. I felt immediately at home.
From the theatre we drove out of town a few miles to Erddig, a ‘stately home’ in the midst of extensive renovation. The last scion of the Yorke family, Philip, died alone, reclusive and grindingly poor in a corner room, with only his dog and an occasional accommodating boy scout for company. As he was (obviously!) the last of his line, the National Historic Trust took over the estate and opened it up to the public.
The place is vast, dark, and roughly filled in, as it’s still in the midst of restoration. Its fine gardens are also being reworked. Less than a mile away is a small agricultural museum. Walking back we crossed a broad field studded about with sheep and goats. To get back to the car we took a beautiful path through a thick forest.
Back in Wrexham we drove to Jenny’s. She had arranged a high tea in my honor. Also present were Eluned, Peter and David, Phil and Russell. It was delectable, four kinds of sandwiches, scones, breads and chocolate cake, strawberries and cream. Although it was hot and muggy it was still fun. Afterward we watched part of Wimbledon on television (Peter is a huge fan), and then, off to the theatre!
At the door I saw Heini and Rommi Przibram, Griff and Charlotte Baines. Heini and Rommi, Richard Morris, Phil Edwards, Eluned, Fred Evans, Ray Ledsham, Margaret Armstrong, Steven Freudmann and others circulated -- in character as all were in the show. Also before the show I saw Hazel and Len Simm and little Glenys Morgan.
The play was the second part of Nicholas Nickleby, four hours that seemed a good deal shorter, except for the bloody heat. Had a thumping good time.
There was a cast party and reception afterward, filled with beer and cheer and during which I got to see a good deal more of Ray and Richard. This year Ray, it turns out, played an old part of mine: Charles Condomine in Blithe Spirit.

Sunday, June 29
Woke up at 11:30. Michael and I went through my new road atlas of Britain (a birthday gift from Michael, bought at Erddig) and marked out the routes we’ve taken this trip. I want to keep it up to date, as a wonderful memento of the trip. We drove into the main part of Chester, had lunch at the Carriage House, then walked to Chester Cathedral. It’s from the twelfth century, was updated and extended over the next 300 years, and even had some nice Victorian touches. I found, by happy accident, Thackeray’s grave in the church. We also explored the Abbey, attached to the cathedral, then walked the Rows, the shopping area of the city. Michael’s knees were in danger of giving out so I explored a few shops while he brought the car around to the visitors’ center. There we saw a film on Chester and I cashed a traveler’s check. Walking through the Grosvenor Gardens I was amused to note more than one couple lying on the grass only several degrees from making the beast with two backs. Then home for drinks and relaxation. Chris, a friend of Michael’s, came over to join us for drinks and dinner -- a classic Yorkshire Pudding, a rib roast and stuffed red peppers. We ended with poached pears in wine with ice cream. During dessert we were joined by two more old friends of Michael’s, Geoffey and Philip. After a nice chat we went down to The Club. It’s a lively place – bar downstairs and disco up. Danced a bit with Chris. Michael scored again with Graham, a weedy boy with streaked hair, a moustache and lots of teeth, sort of a young, ‘80s version of Neville Chamberlain. (I’m uncharitably inclined to believe that Michael’s scores are rent boys.) Back home, I went to bed reeking of Club smoke, though considerably more relaxed than on previous nights. Tomorrow we travel!

Monday, June 30
Michael awakened me early and I packed for the trip north. We let Graham off in Ellesmere Port and drove across very flat country in bad traffic toward York. Soon we crossed the Pennines, beautiful mountains steeper than I would have believed in England. It turned quite cold, mist so heavy it seemed almost wintry. Above the timberline ragged sheep were our only company. We descended into the Manchester area and later reached Pontefract, once the center for liquorice farming (!). It’s also the site of the ruined Pomfret Castle, where the feckless fool Richard II was murdered.
Soon after we were in York. Like Chester, the city is walled and has a great cathedral. But the stone of York Minster is grey-white limestone to Chester’s muddy red-brown. This church is a splendid airy gothic pile, with small gargoyles sprouting from the spires like spiteful pigeons. I explored it alone after having lunch with Michael in a pub, The York Arms. It was as lovely inside York Minster as out, the quintessence of the Gothic cathedral. Afterward I cashed a couple of travelers’ checks. Michael dropped me off at York Castle while he got reacquainted with an old friend he had seen. (Michael is a native of York.) I climbed the steep hill to Clifford’s Tower, the only standing part of the castle. I carefully ascended the narrow steps to the walk around the battlements, head reeling, legs, arms, hands, feet tingling. Struggling manfully with my acrophobia I made it around clockwise. To my left, the town falls away down the steep hill; to the right is the hollow crater of the ruined tower. When I made it down to the ground I looked up and felt somewhat foolish to realize how close to the ground the battlements were. The museum was a different matter – delight for a good two hours. In essence, its programme is a social history of the English people. The most impressive item to me was a recently discovered Saxon helmet from around 700 A.D.
At 5:30 Michael picked me up at a designated spot and we drove over to see his mother. She is 77 (seems younger), and imperially trim; I found her charming. Michael strenuously objected to this characterization later. He describes her rather as a “charming monster”, probably with some justification. Their failed relationship makes his already considerable complexity more poignant. I thought of Nanny, the grandmother who raised me.
We sped north out of York, past Darlington, past Newcastle-upon-Tyne, to the small city of Alnwick high up in Northumberland, three miles from the North Sea. We checked in at the White Swan, a converted carriage house in the center of town. The Alnwick Festival was in progress, many young men and women parading about in costume from all periods. We ate a Lucullan dinner in the hotel restaurant, The Bondgate (sea trout rolled in oatmeal, sauteed in limes, wonderful cream of celery soup, Alnwick moor mushrooms in tomato and garlic, ending in chocolate gateau). Afterward I strolled around the town while Michael slummed in the hotel lobby. Dusk comes later in these northern regions: at 10:00! A heavy mist lay over the town, lit by occasional lonely lights, a marvellous atmosphere where one felt anything could happen. The town is old, old, heavy with grey stone, which the mist softened to an antique beauty. One pub, the Queen’s Head, has a noteworthy pub sign, good Queen Bess’s face glowering out of a flower of spiked lace.
When I returned to the hotel Michael was holding court among a bevy of young Norwegian girls, over to play in the festival band. They all speak good English and were charm incarnate. They play again tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. and we are going to hear them.
The exceedingly attractive young manager of the hotel, in a Gordon tartan kilt, came over to visit briefly. I had a Perrier, Michael a Drambuie, and then we went on up to bed.

Tuesday, July 1
We had a vast English breakfast in the hotel restaurant – figs, jam, marmalade and oatcakes, and a grilled kipper, washed down with first-rate coffee. After a stroll around Alnwick, whose ghostly beauty had flown during the night, we checked out. We packed the car and walked to the town square to hear the band from Bryne, Norway. After about ten minutes we drove out of town, past Alnwick Castle, northward along the North Sea. Bamburgh Castle, an enormous fortress hight above the sea, was closed, except for some schoolchildren on a special permit. So we contented ourselves by walking halfway around it. In one stretch facing the sea, the walls were coated with beautiful, tiny snails.
Back on the road we went north around Berwick-upon-Tweed and we were in Scotland. It wasn’t noticeably different from Northumberland until we climbed into the Lammermuir Hills, glorious and quite lonely except for thousands of sheep. Michael stopped just below Whiteadder Reservoir in a green valley, so I could take pictures of the shy, photogenic spotty-faced sheep. On the down side of Lammermuir we stopped at a pub in Gifford, the Goblin Ha’, where we had a pint of bitter and I had a sausage, onion and apple pie. Michael had the ploughman’s lunch. I wrote a few postcards here and we drove on to Edinburgh.
The city is primarily of dark grey stone, very crisp and airily gothic. What I saw of it was glorious. Princes Street is what every big-city street should be. And towering over it on an immense promontory, Edinburgh Castle, with the delicate spire of the Walter Scott monument below it. Michael and I drove west toward Glasgow to our hotel, the Royal Scot, beautiful, newish, though plain on the outside. We checked in, lightened our loads, and took a bus back into Edinburgh. Michael toured the castle while I did a bit of gift shopping. We met for a delightful dinner at a bistro called Nimmo’s: haggis with neeps, rainbow trout stuffed with Scottish cheeses and grilled, and a bottle of Neuminster. (I can now go to my grave having eaten haggis, the Scottish national dish, with no more obligation to eat it again.) It was now too late to go to the theatre so we came back, Michael to absorb a bit of scotch, I to write postcards and update this journal.

Wednesday, July 2
A most unusual day. We got up for breakfast at the hotel, another English classic: eggs, kidneys, bangers, black pudding, grilled tomatoes, plus marmalade and croissants. We drove into Edinburgh proper and walked around the castle to the camera obscura exhibit, shown by a beautiful young guide with a delicious thick burr, then down the “Royal Mile.” I left Michael at a pub, the Jolly Judge, while I did some more shopping.
Around 1:00 p.m. we drove south toward Carlisle through breathtaking countryside, in the valley below the Pentland Hills. Finally in the area of Carlisle, we started looking for Hadrian’s Wall, which had become a sort of obsession with me. We searched for an hour with no results. The wall, as beautifully chronicled in photographs, eluded us completely. We drove west all the way to Bowness-on-Solway and only found a map that indicated where the original Roman fort stood. We saw no wall, no bare stones at all, only a mound where it might have stood, still unexcavated at this point. Snappish and sullen, we drove down the coast along Solway Firth to Maryport.
Michael booked us at Maryport as an experiment, having no knowledge of the town. Our hotel, the Waverley, is a perfect example of the second-class seaside resort hotel, postwar austerity still clinging to it. The town itself is lackluster and Michael was as appalled as I was. We drove down to a town with the evocative name of Cockermouth, for dinner at a pleasant restaurant. Soup, game pie, and a very frothy cheesecake – not the substantial, Jewish-American classic but not bad, either. We drove back by way of Worthington, a lovely seaside town seven miles down the coast. Back at the Waverley we sat in the lounge, I reading Anthony Burgess, Michael watching Wimbledon. On television are, among other things, Rashomon, and a re-run of Rhoda, inexplicably very popular over here.

Thursday, July 3
Today I am forty. Time marches on.
We left Maryport right after the hotel breakfast. After a short stop at Cockermouth to send a card to Sasha, we drove into the glorious Cumbrian mountains, the fabled Lake District. The first lake was Crummock Water, and immediately after, Buttermere. The lakes themselves are very impressive in themselves, set among the dramatic mountains; the perfect weather added immeasurably to the show. And for the first half hour there were few cars. The landscape changed subtly from hill and grass to valleys of granite boulders, then to exquisite leafy dells and twisting turns. We circled north to go around Bassenthwaite Lake, then south again alongside Thirlmere, the Grasmere, then the gorgeous little town of Ambleside. The road turned and twisted along, we with it, both overjoyed at the beauty of the land.
We stopped in the town of Coniston, where Ruskin is buried. At the Crown Hotel, outside on the terrace, we stopped for a coffee. I walked down the street to a butcher shop and bought two Scotch eggs, a pub delicacy I remember from my first visit in 1971 and have been searching for since I arrived. We ate them and walked through town, and I picked up some postcards. We headed south along Coniston Water, east again and northward along Windermere, the grandest of the lakes and the one most popular with tourists. It was getting on for lunchtime, so we went through dazzling Bowness-on-Windermere and stopped in the town of Windermere itself. We found a nice restaurant; I had fresh-caught Windermere char covered with a sauce made with prawns and peppers. I drank a nice shandy. A chocolate gateau followed. Michael went back to the car while I made a leisurely turn through the town. We headed back to Chester and arrived in an impressive hour and forty-five minutes.
After an or so of rest, we picked up Chris Parkin and drove over to spend the evening at Geoffrey and Philip’s. The delightful wine and cheese party featured a glorious array of cheeses: red Leicester, brie, Cheshire, Stilton, and Wenby, a mild smooth product of Yorkshire.
We were joined by Geoffrey and Philip’s next-door neighbor Judy Martindale, a fun, friendly divorcee. She’s a good laugher. We listened to music and visited, and on top of all the wine I had a bit of gin and tonic, the result being…

Friday, July 4
…A fiendish hangover. I suffered the predictable consequences until around noon. By 1:00 my headache was almost gone, my ablutions were done, and so Michael took me to the Chester Zoo. It’s a fine collection of birds, beasts, fish and breathtaking gardens. Vast beds of roses, arranged by variety, were as much a treat as the fauna. After a couple of hours, Michael brought me home to pack before transferring me to Peter and David’s.
What a superb host Michael Quarrier has been! Campy, exasperating, tireless and terrifically funny, he really showed me Britain, though it must sometimes have been exhausting to someone of his age and (let’s be frank) weight. This morning he showed me programs and pictures of his old shows, including his outrageous costumes as the Dame in the Christmas pantomimes. His eyes glowed with the mischief and delight of a ten-year-old.
Michael drove me over the border to Wales, to Peter and David’s house. Crocus Cottage is an exquisite place next to a pub, the Nag’s Head. Still in a state of restoration, it has a large kitchen, a cozy library-sitting room, music room, and a large, as-yet-undefined room now used for storage. Above all this are bath and bedrooms. I’m cozily situated in a nice bedroom, Peter’s I think.
Michael stayed for a bit, Russell and Phil came over, bringing a birthday cake! Soon Michael left (till we meet again on Sunday night) and we had dinner and a delightful visit.
Dinner, prepared by David, was a south of France concoction, a hotpot of chicken, cheese, mushrooms and tomatoes over rice. Lots of rich red rioja. We listened to music – David brought out CDs of an old singer I’d never heard of, Zarah Leander, a Swede who was wildly popular in Nazi Germany. I also discovered that David is a devotee of Billy Holiday and Peter, apostasy of apostasies, can’t stand her! (“Dismal bitch!”) Peter went on up to bed, and beautiful David and I listened to her. These were the later recordings, where the cream had drained away from her voice, leaving only a ragged rasp as the vessel for that imperishable style. Yes, I can already tell that this part of my trip is going to be as enjoyable as the first. I am so much at home with all of these friends.

Saturday, July 5
Wonderful day, especially at evening. Woke up latish, nice Granola-type cereal. Then Peter and David and I drove downtown where I did a spot of shopping (the Spitting Image books and a copy of Punch). Then to Grove Park for their Saturday morning coffee – a regular custom, apparently. From there I was taken to Phil and Russell’s where I was presented with yet another birthday gift, the record of the musical show Pickwick, which I’ve sought for years. Peter and David went on, I stayed for a nice lunch of fried fish, etc., ending with a peach meringue.
Phil then drove me to Oswestry, Shropshire, through the dazzling Welsh countryside. Dorothy Davies, my old show director from Maryland is from there originally, and spends half the year there with her husband Cyril. I was determined to at least try to find her. There was, of course, only half a chance that she would be there -- or even be alive. We stopped at a shop where a friend of a friend of Phil’s was supposed to be. No luck. We were directed to the library, and had a bit of luck: Dorothy is a Catholic, so we were given the number of a priest who might know her. Phil got him on the phone. The man was a bit vague, said he thought he knew of her but wasn’t exactly sure. (With a name like Davies, just across the border from Wales…) The priest might have been loath to give information in case we might not be entirely savory characters – our search could have seemed a bit shadowy. But Phil was a superb detective, asking succinct, to-the-point questions. It wasn’t his fault that we had no real luck; this was, to be truthful, rather a quixotic search. But I liked seeing Oswestry itself, so much a part of the life of a friend. Since I had Dorothy’s American address, I sent her a postcard. A remembrance of her hometown from an old friend will please the old darling. Again, if she’s still alive.
Phil brought me back to Peter around six. We drove to Eastham, a suburb of Birkenhead, to pick up David, who’s spending the night at his mother’s house. From there we drove to Manchester. I’d always imagined the city to be a large, gritty eyesore but it is nothing of the kind! Manchester is grand and beautiful in the classic Victorian mold, with elegant tall buildings and lovely parks. In its red-brick grandiosity it reminded me of a statelier Boston.
We stopped (for the loo) at Philip’s, a friend of Peter and David’s. Philip’s place is a shrine of show-biz memorabilia – Judy Garland’s image everywhere, show posters and film placards encrusting the walls. We then drove a few blocks north to the theatre.
This was originally the Royal Corn Exchange, a vast domed hall. Now a great theatre is constructed in the center, a vast fretwork of scaffolds, supports with banks of seats, a ring of lighting equipment and bits of set suspended in the middle.
We took our seats, three on the very top row – surprisingly a fabulous view. We looked almost directly down into a pit of light. The play began. It’s the first English production of a classic 19th century French farce, Court in the Act. To recall its elaborate plot would require pages; let it suffice to say that it was a perfect night in the theatre -- three delicious settings, brilliant costumes, skillful comedic playing from a superb company. The glittering jewel of the production was the lead actress, Gabrielle Drake, a brilliant farceuse who skillfully used even her costumes as props. This was lucky, as she was repeatedly required to slip out of them. A memorable evening in the theatre, and Peter and David were as enchanted as I.
At the intermission three different Britons thanked me for coming over to visit. Most Americans, terrified by the meltdown in Chechnya, have elected to stay home this summer, a decided damper on the British tourist industry.
Afterward we strolled through the city, glowing with lights and even more beautiful than earlier. We surveyed the menus of several restaurants, finally settling on La Terrazza. David and I shared a bottle of Soave. Peter had appetizers, which I avoided, being rather stuffed on this visit already. My dish was worth the wait: linguini Terrazza, in a saffron-cream sauce with squid and shrimp. We ended with coffee and Amaretto biscuits. On leaving we had difficulty finding our way out of the city. Dropping David in Eastham, we came home. An unforgettable day.

Sunday, July 6
How can one pick one day of a marvelous vacation as being better than all the rest? That’s easy. It must simply rate as one of the great days of your life. This one did.
I got up around ten. Shortly, Peter came back with Phil and Russell, Jenny, Eluned, and Fred Evans. We piled ourselves and the picnic hampers into two cars and headed for the Derbyshire Peak District. Our destination was the town of Buxton, Derbyshire, but most of what we saw till Macclesfield was in Cheshire. Buxton is a charming large town constructed largely of soft brown Derbyshire stone. In the center of town stands the Buxton Opera House, alongside a lovely green park. In the Pavilion we all sat down to drink coffee and wait for Claire, a friend of the group who now lives in Mansfield. I was enchanted by Claire, an extravagantly pretty brunette with a soft sweet voice and, I was told, an extremely vacant and dithery personality. I never saw a hint of this.
We all moved the picnic gear to a soft slope by the stream that meanders through the park. The cloth was spread; the food was unpacked; we picnickers settled down – and immediately sprang up again. The ground was wet and quickly seeping through the cloth. There were plenty of plastic bags, however, now emptied of food and equipment, and we sat on those. The picnic began.
Wine! Chicken! Ham! Quiche! Cheese and cucumber, watercress, egg salad sandwiches, too! The company was incomparable and the weather was coolish, but utterly pleasant. On the patio of the Pavilion above an amateur brass band played, and all was as close to perfection as I ever expect to find. It was almost a caricature of carefree Sunday indolence and I loved it. There were even duck families swimming in the stream alongside us. If a White Rabbit with waistcoat and pocket watch had run by I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. This was truly Wonderland.
All good things must end so we took all the stuff back to the cars, then came back to stroll through the park and we even rode the kiddie train around the pond.
We had theatre tickets, but there was time before curtain to take a field trip. We piled back into the cars and drove to the village of Ashford-in-the-Water. And yes, it was perfect too – the most beautiful village I have ever seen [Note in 2003: this judgment still stands.] Everything was in soft grey stone – the Sheepwash bridge, rose-coated Bridge House, the church, tombstones, private houses – all untouched by the ugliness so plentifully to be found in this century. But time ran as fast there as it does in any town. We drove back to Buxton through deep valleys dark with tangled trees.
The Buxton Opera House is a large white, gold and burgundy auditorium, foaming with putti, shields, curlicues -- all the rococo glory of your classic opera house. As we settled into our seats Michael Quarrier joined us.
The show was Blood Brothers, a musical (sort of) by Willy Russell. The plot involved poor twins separated at birth, one sold to a barren rich woman. It was hopelessly contrived, with impossible implausibilities, a paucity of music, bad set, and at least thirty references in the lyrics to Marilyn Monroe. Nonetheless I enjoyed it if only because of the company I was in. It was a fine ending to a delectable day. We all separated from Claire, whom I hated to see go, and got back in the cars and drove home. Fred went with Peter and me. In a heavy rain all the way home, we talked about the show and acting in general. If “the days that make us happy make us wise,” I was Solomon.

Monday, July 7
Perfect day succeeds perfect day! After breakfast Phil and Jenny came by to take me on a drive around North Wales. We started by going west to see Theatre Clwyd in the town of Mold; it’s a large, imposing affair on a magnificent hill. We drove towards Denbigh, a hilly town of (what else?) picturesque charm. West, on the Denbigh moors, we saw the ruin of the great house they destroyed when filming the George C. Scott/Susannah York Jane Eyre. It stood on a hill with dark clouds behind – a perfect metaphor for the character of Rochester. Further on, hills turned to leafy glens. We crossed the river Conwy to a town called Betwys-y-Coed and had tea on the terrace of an old hotel. Phil and Jenny are sprightly companions and I must applaud them right here for indulging my propensity to stop and photograph things.
On the way to Swallow Falls, we stopped short behind a tourist coach. For five minutes we didn’t move. Then ten. Then fifteen. Behind us and before us stood an endless line of cars. Roadwork up ahead. Finally the coach tore into the opposing lane, Phil following. Immediately behind us came a huge yellow lorry. Bracketed by these behemoths, we barrelled on through.
Further up the road we turned at Capel Curig. Below stretched the twin lakes at the base of the Snowdon mountain range. We crept upward, mountains of green crushed-velvet in the distance. In the Pass of Llanberis we stopped for me to snap some more pictures. I wanted to stay at this valley of ragged rock and velvety grass forever, but more wonders beckoned: Llanberis Castle, the foot of Mount Snowdon, more towns and countryside.
At Caernarvon, the magnificent site of Prince Charles’s investiture, we stopped for lunch -- beer from one shop, fish and chips from another. The latter was dripping with fat and cholesterol and bursting with flavor, yummy to the last licked finger. The essence of gustatorial guilt.
We toured the town on foot, going around the castle down to the bridge at the Menai Strait, the sublimely beautiful body of water between Wales proper and the Island of Anglesey. We crossed the Britannia Bridge and visited Llanfairpwllgwyngullgogerychwyrn-
drobellllantysiliogogogoch. Back over another bridge onto the mainland, we passed through Bangor, Llanfairfechan, Penmaenmawr, and exquisite little Conwy. Here is a fine castle with fragmented wall, hilly steep streets looking over the mouth of the Conwy river. We crossed the bridge and stopped at the resort town of Llandudno. A broad Edwardian promenade fronts the sea. Embraced by the hollow between Great- and Little Orme Heads, it’s a most attractive town.
Through Colwyn (Costa Geriatrica, Phil snorted), Abergele, St. Asaph, and Denbigh we headed home. We picked up Russell on the way back from the train and got two bottles of bardolino. Jenny cooked a great meal. Fine end to a great day, no? No. There was more to come.
Phil and Russell brought me back to Peter and David’s for the reunion of our New York travel party last summer. Richard Morris brought slides and we had a showing. By and by Ray Ledsham showed up (he’d been at an audition) and the party got into full swing. Richard had even (at my request) brought a goodly part of his animal skull collection, which all but Peter found absorbing. Soon the party had to end and David and I played Lena Horne’s one woman show for awhile and then to bed.

Tuesday, July 8
The morning began with a nice surprise: David brought me juice and tea in bed. Phil came by around 9:30 and he, Peter and I drove to Liverpool. It was seedy and rundown in parts and I never got a sense of the center of the place, but I liked it anyway. We got to Penny Lane (Beatle holy site) and got out to prowl about, and stopped for coffee and madeira cake at Sergeant Pepper’s Country Kitchen. My cake was all right but something nasty was floating in my coffee so I sent it back. They accepted it silently, no apologies or offer to replace it, which I would have undoubtedly refused. It wasn’t at all a nice place – in fact a certifiable tourist trap, and Peter and Phil were suitably indignant.
Downtown, I bought a couple of secondhand show albums. We met Russell, who works in Liverpool, at a pub called the Lisbon, a nice, light place with ornate ceiling, spacious and pleasant. We all settled down to the same meal, steak and kidney pie with mixed vegetables and chips.
Also on the downtown tour was The Cavern, where the Fab Four started their career. Sadly, the original hole-in-the-wall has been torn down, the whole replaced by an American-style indoor downtown mall. In the center was a truly hideous bronze statue of four young men vaguely reminiscent of the Beatles. John was the only one easy to pick out, being hung about with dried flowers. I couldn’t help but feel that such a careless, stupid chunk of ‘art’ was insulting to a group of such good musicians. They deserved better.
Driving through other parts of Liverpool I could perceive what a grand city it still is, below the evident fiscal depression, the loss of style that Peter and Phil bemoaned all the time we were there.
We took a wrong turn coming out of the tunnel so we headed for a moribund resort on the tip of the Wirral, the peninisula between the estuaries of the Mersey and the Dee. New Brighton is almost a ghost town, but because of its marvelous view of the bay, there are plans to try to revive its fortunes. We drove home through the rather prettier towns of the Wirral, West Kirby and Neston.
Michael Quarrier came by. He had arranged to give a talk to the Erddig Women’s Association on the Christmas pantomime. We stopped at the theatre to get a costume and wig for Michael. He was most offended at playing the Dame in the outfit which Peter had selected for him. We picked up Hilda, who was to play music for the talk.
At St. Michael’s Church Peter gave an informative and entertaining talk on the history of the traditional panto. I loved every minute, and the ladies responded with chuckles and nods of recognition. When Peter got up to the present day he spoke of working with one of the best ‘Dames’ he had ever seen. “Hit it, Hilda…”
Hilda struck a chord and Michael sashayed in. He wore heavy, tartish makeup, a yellow and silver-lame sheath quivering with flounces, a high yellow confection of a turban covered with silver fruit and topped with yellow feathers -- a perfect lampoon of Carmen Miranda.
Michael launched into an hilarious monologue that simply finished us off. The women were seeing the embodiment of a cherished institution; to me it was a prime sample of a branch of theatre I don’t know at all; and a good time was had by all. It was quite an experience, and I regret that the panto is only an English tradition. Americans must settle for the inevitable Messiah and Nutcracker every year, with little variation. Where’s the fun?
Back home we ate dinner with TV. David fixed a delicious meal and we talked books till bedtime.

Wednesday, July 9
David and Peter went out early to work and I lazed about, getting my bags in order and waiting for Phil, due at some unspecified time. I listened to another of David’s Zarah Leander records – what a find she is. Phil arrived after 11:30 and we drove to Wrexham to pick up Jenny, our destination Llangollen and the International Eisteddfod. We found a parking space on a grassy slope, walked across a humpbacked stone bridge, and suddenly the hills really were alive with the sound of music.
A choir was singing in the distance, sounding as pale and pure on the breeze as the wind through reeds. Phil, working at the Wales Gas tent, got us in the gate free, which meant that we didn’t have a ticket to the musical events, but no matter. Enough music was piped outside to give us the feel of the festival. At the tent, Phil introduced us to his boss and directed us to the drinks counter. Phil began working; Jenny had a white wine, I an ale. The meal was smoked mackerel, quiche, new potato and salad, with caramelized orange and brandy snap for dessert, followed by coffee, Stilton and crackers.
When we finished we had to leave Phil behind to work. Jenny and I wandered the grounds, absorbing the free stuff. There was an enjoyable demonstration of ancient instruments being filmed by the BBC. We worked our way around the circle back to Phil’s tent to tell him we were going into the town itself. He agreed to meet us in an hour and a quarter, to take us back to Wrexham. Outside the festival gate we ran into Richard Morris, and he joined us in our walk around Llangollen. We mainly hit the antique stores, in my fruitless search for a traditional teapot. Instead I found a nice Staffordshire stirrup cup. Richard lives here, so he was a fount of information about the town.
Back in Wrexham we stopped at Phil’s mother’s house for a spot of tea. She was pleasant and friendly though Phil told me afterward that she wasn’t always so. Peter for instance, fell afoul of her sometime in the past and now regards her with something akin to horror.
Phil took us to Jenny’s and I said goodbye to him there. He’s been a wonderful guide and splendid company, but then so has everyone. I spent the remainder of the afternoon at Jenny’s, listening to a taped interview with Stephen Sondheim while Jenny bathed and got ready for the dinner party.
At 7:30 Peter came by to drive us to Heini and Rommi Przibram’s house, a large residence fronted by a rose garden. Most of the guests were already there: Ray Ledsham, Eluned, Michael Q., and our hosts’ daughter Bridie. Ray could only stay a bit, but Richard Morris and David joined us as the evening wore on. Heini overheard David and me discussing Zarah Leander and burst into a symphony of devotion to her. The evening was over too soon and I hated to say goodbye to these wonderful people who’ve made this a perfect holiday.

Thursday, July 10
After packing and my morning wash-up, I had a lush breakfast that David, bless him, had prepared. He drove Peter and me to the rail station in Chester and we got our tickets. Passsing through Crewe, Wolverhampton, Sandwell and Dudley, Birmingham, Coventry, we arrived at Euston before I quite realized we were actually in the city.
We easily made it to the tube station and traveled to Earl’s Court. My bags had never seemed so heavy; I wondered if I’d even make it to the hotel. Finally we reached it: the Philbeach Hotel, in the curve of one of London’s great crescents. After dropping our bags we departed for Leicester Square. We didn’t want to see the same shows so we split up. Peter decided on Stepping Out, a long-running show about tap-dancing. I got a ticket for Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. We lunched at a favorite spot of Peter’s, Stockpot. I had curried eggs – not bad but hardly what I expected.
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, at the Prince of Wales Theatre, was pleasant except for a few minor irritations: three of the cast, including the female lead, were replaced due to ‘indisposition,’ the performers were deafeningly miked (an ugly American import, I’m afraid), and the relentless mugging of the six younger brothers transcended caricature. They were like hillbillies on speed, perfect boors devoid of charm. Quibbles aside, it was entertaining but not a patch on the movie. After the show I met Peter at the half-price ticket booth in Leicester Square. From there we walked to Covent Garden. The market I remember so fondly from 1971 has vanished. The remaining shell has been turned into an American-style mall; Eliza Doolittle’s grimy domain has been gentrified out of existence. I might have been in Boston’s Quincy Market or any one of a hundred similar malls. This sad metamorphosis didn’t keep me from shopping, though. Dress Circle, a show music wonderland, is here.
After scouting dozens of splendid cafés (Peter is a criminally finicky eater) we settled on a nice creperie. I had a crepe with ratatouille and chicken accompanied by a kir. Peter (o, lost soul) had a hamburger with fries.
The play we had chosen was Alan Ayckbourne’s A Chorus of Disapproval at the Duke of York’s. The theatre itself is a baroque charmer; the play was less successful. It’s not fun to see a master like Ayckbourne produce a play so tedious and unnecessary -- one forty-five minutes too long. Some of the performances were expertly done and the production itself was smooth. But the heat and the length of the evening pulled this into the losing column.
It was sprinkling lightly when we emerged into the night. We strolled up Piccadilly to find a pub. The Clarence, on a side street, was cozy, warm, friendly and tiny. After Peter’s lemonade and my pint of bitter it was soon “time, gentlemen,” so we got to the Green Street stop and took the tube back to Earl’s Court.

Friday, July 11
I woke long before Peter. I had a solitary breakfast with my book in the hotel restaurant then fetched my camera and told a sleepy Peter that I would be back within the hour. I expected to make a wide circle around the neighborhood and return to the hotel as a logical procession. London had other ideas. I got hopelessly lost and had to be guided back by pub- and shopkeepers. And halfway out, I discovered that I had only 2 exposures left.
We tubed into the heart of town. Peter wanted to go to Foyle’s so I got off at the Green Street stop and toured the city on foot -- to exhaustion, as I like to do. It was fun to be on my own for a while, mobile, footloose and curious. I met Peter at the Charlie Chaplin statue in Leicester Square, an inept bronze excrescence that looks no more like Chaplin than I do. Another puny ‘tribute’ to a great artist from a negligible one. We walked to Covent Garden to mine the remainder of Dress Circle. Afterwards we walked to the National Theatre on the South Bank. On the Strand I bought a Scotch egg to munch on the way.
This was my first visit to the National. Our play, Brighton Beach Memoirs, was at the Lyttleton. While Peter had a spot of lunch I took the lift to the upper level lobby of the Olivier Theatre. I honestly and legitimately expected to find a grand portrait of the master actor, perhaps in one of his memorable roles. Instead there was a modest bronze head, respectful but to my mind an inadequate tribute. Unlike Chaplin, it was at least recognizable.
Brighton Beach Memoirs was the best Neil Simon I’ve ever seen. Production: superb. Actors: superb to brilliant. Even their American accents were impeccable. Our seats were dress circle, first row: excellent. Both of us were highly entertained and moved. We were both walking in the clouds as we walked back to the West End.
We walked to a gay bar on St. Martin’s Lane to meet Peter’s friend Alan, a beautiful bearded blond who makes wigs and hats for shows. After drinks we walked to a sidewalk café in Soho for dinner. On the way I spotted one of the actors from Seven Brides….
The last show of the trip was the Donmar Warehouse Theatre production of Side by Side by Sondheim. Alan walked us to the theatre and left us. I had enjoyed his company tremendously.
In spite of overfamiliarity with the material, which I was never terribly fond of in the first place, the show was entertaining. The four performers were highly accomplished, a good enough reason for the show.
Afterward it was raining lustily – the only drenching downfall I ran into on the whole trip. We flew down Shaftesbury Avenue, ducking into shops and underneath galleries, to the General Store, where I at long last found my teapot, a plump little charmer covered with rosebuds. Then we took the Underground back to Earl’s Court and made a mad dash for the hotel in still-pelting rain, a bath, a drink, a bed.

Saturday, July 12
We got up at 7:30 and I called Heathrow to check my terminal. After the briefest of breakfasts with Peter we packed and were informed we had a phone call. It was David, saying goodbye. (He has been one of the loveliest discoveries of this trip.) On the tube to Heathrow, the zipper on Peter’s bag came out, the first of a string of mishaps. The second was when I got up from my seat to discover I’d been sitting on a huge soft wad of chewing gum. Opening my bag for fresh slacks I pinched my hand in the catch, drawing copious blood. The checkout counter was the most clotted throng of people I’d been in since the Tokyo subway. After I checked in, we said goodbye and I made my way to the departure gate. I hated saying goodbye to Peter.
The flight back was not without one final mishap: with an almost deliberate thoroughness I hurled an entire martini into my lap. But not even gin-soaked trousers could spoil a wonderful trip like this.

Wales '05

2008-07-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

Wales 2005 (A journal in email)

Dear Friends and Family,
Well, here I am in Britain. I arrived with no problem, except my by-now-customary upper respiratory difficulties. They were particularly nasty this time, and are only sorting themselves out now, six days after my arrival. I shall spare you the sodden details...
For those of you to whom this message is a surprise, I should mention that I have been invited over to be in a production of "Oliver!" at the Gateway Theatre in Chester, England. I finally met my director, Leslie Churchill Ward, on Monday night. She is just as irrepressibly bubbly in person as she is via email. I knew Simon Phillips, the music director, from previous visits. He has been wonderfully generous towards my efforts to sing, given my current vocal difficulties. With steady infusions of Sudafed and a Niagara of tea, however, my larynx should soon be liberated from its prison. So far I haven't had the opportunity to work on my scene since we've only done group music rehearsals. I have been put into the tenors. The top note expected of me is a wowser, but I should be able to reach it with no difficulties once my problems have been laid to rest.
As it turns out, I know a few people from my earlier adventure in British theatre, "The Sound of Music" (May 2002). The Mother Superior in that production, Maureen Tolefree, is the Mrs. Bedwin, and my scene as Dr. Grimwig is with her. Another of the nuns, a warm and utterly delightful woman named Pat Pearce, is in the production, as is her charming husband Dave. Chris Dukes, with whom I had most of my scenes in "S.O.M.", is in the production. So is John Lindop, who plays Fagin. Steve Davies, the director of "S.O.M.", is playing a short but highly decorative role in "Oliver!" and he has become one of my favorite friends over here. There are a couple of others, and many of the backstage personnel are the same here -- and all are friendly and seem to be glad to see me again. Chris, in particular, is going to be a great pleasure to work with, and she has volunteered to carry me away to various corners of Britain for adventuring on a couple of the weekends that we're not rehearsing. Oh, joy!
I'm staying with my friends Peter and David across the border from England in Wrexham, North Wales. Wrexham is a charming market town, rapidly growing into a small city. Peter and David's house is not far from the town center, and so I will be doing a good deal of brisk walking while here. Luckily the weather will allow me to do this painlessly. Yes, rain is frequent, but the sun always reliably returns. The temperatures have remained somewhere between 40 and 55 degrees. A short stroll down the street from here is the local pub, Acton Park. I stopped in for a pint of bitter the other day and was pleased to see on the bulletin board, the poster I'd designed for Peter's previous show. (The "Oliver!" poster is printed now, so I should take a copy down one of these days.) The Acton Park is a charmer, filled with light and with a lovely fireplace roaring away in the non-smoking section. Yes, this should be a MOST pleasant stay...
Next week Peter and I are going to London for a couple of days. Peter has already gotten us tickets for a spectacular show, the Christmas pantomime at the Old Vic, starring Ian McKellen as the Dame. Perhaps a word regarding the panto is called for here, as it's an indigenous British custom with no American equivalent. Pantomime as we Americans know it is not part of the show. It's just called that. The show comes from one of a series of typical stories, like Cinderella, Aladdin, Dick Whittington and his Cat, Babes in the Wood, etc., that are used as a template for a local writer (in Wrexham's case Peter) to write a show featuring jokes (some anciently traditional), pop and traditional songs with new, saucy lyrics making reference to current events, and wildly extravagant sets and costumes. There's a "principal girl", a "principal boy" or hero, traditionally played by a girl (though that tradition is changing), and the Dame. The Dame is ALWAYS played by a man, in escalatingly outrageous costumes, and with the most outrageous playing style manageable. Michael Quarrier, my first British guest when I got to know my Brits, was a wonderful, and popular, Dame. Drag, by the way, is an ancient and venerable tradition in Britain, a tradition that would send the American crazy-Christers into anguished prayer meetings. The panto is played around Christmas, a week or so before and often into early January. In the big cities, pantomimes are big business. The leading companies perform quite elaborate ones, usually with big stars playing the Dame. Over here, Ian McKellan is as big a star as one could possibly hope for, and he has even gotten a glowing write-up in the New York Times.
Well, I see out the window that the clouds have flown away once more, telling me I should take a stroll down to the town center for lunch.

Dear Friends and Family,
The horrendous rains and flooding that have battered Scotland and the north of England have left North Wales unmolested. And Wednesday, as Peter and I boarded the train to London, the sun came out in full. During the two days there it was always shining. We arrived at Euston station and parted. Peter had a ticket to a panto near Victoria Station and I wanted to 'do' London. We agreed to meet at the TKTS booth in Leicester Square at 5:00.
I meandered down to the West End through Bloomsbury, and arrived at my destination: the National Portrait Gallery. I am familiar with the collection from former visits, but there's always worthy new work to be seen. My favorite portrait was of a theatrical producer named Thelma Holt, whom I'd never heard of. But her portrait, by Jennifer McRae, is a splendid piece of work, islands of bright colors working against quiet ones, with feathery brushwork and a wealth of rich detail. The Gallery has another of her works, the playwright Michael Frayn. Rather than plow through the bulk of the collection, I made a beeline for the Tudor era portraits, my great favorites. By the time I had savored them to the full, and seen a special exhibition of caricature, it was time to stroll about the theatre district till it was time to meet Peter. Back at the TKTS booth I bought a ticket to a new production of Sondheim's "Sweeney Todd."
Peter was late in joining me, and could not join me for dinner; he left immediately to pick up his bag, which he'd left at his theatre. We agreed to meet later, and I set out to find a restaurant. Peter, alas, is the world's pickiest eater, strictly a meat and potatoes man, so I was pleased to scout for something a bit more exotic.
Exotic it turned out not to be, but it was immensely satisfying. Near Cambridge Circus I found a little Italian restaurant I'd never seen before. I hadn't had a scrap of seafood since my arrival in this nautical nation, so I ordered an all-seafood meal. Spectacular! A cold seafood salad came first, accompanied by a glass of pinot grigio. The main course was trotta ala Cleopatra, a delectable piece of trout broiled in butter and topped with capers and tiny shrimp. I managed to eat it without moaning in ecstasy, but it was a proper job, I can tell you. This had to be the finest seafood dish I've had in a decade.
In front of my theatre I found Peter, who had come to find out when my play got out. He had acquired a ticket to London's newest sellout, a stage mounting of "Mary Poppins," for which single tickets MAY be had. On Peter's advice, I got a ticket myself, for the next day's matinee, then returned to the New Ambassador to see my musical.
This mounting of "Sweeney Todd" is adventurous and has been well-received by the critics, and I was looking forward to it with great pleasure. My seatmate was an American, a copy editor at TIME, and she was friendly and, as it turns out, absolutely new to the play. The actors in this production, with the exception of the title character, all play musical instruments when not in a scene, a new and intriguing experiment that, alas, doesn't work especially well. The staging was minimalist to a fault, and unfortunately geared to an audience already familiar with the play; a stranger would have missed a good deal of the subtleties, not to mention several crucial plot elements. In the scene where Todd sings plangently of his daughter Joanna while slicing the throats of his clientele one by one, the actor stood on top of a black coffin while caressing a smaller red coffin. No indication that a procession of innocent victims was meeting their grisly fates! Mrs. Lovett, at the end, is not thrust into an oven, but instead has her throat slit. In short, a novel approach, but a failure. The actor who sang Sweeney was properly vicious and pathetic, but the acting honors went to Mrs. Lovett. Imagine, if you can, Bert Lahr in a miniskirt. (Yes, the costumes ran the gamut from 1880s London to the Swingin' Sixties.) She was a fine singer (when not on the trumpet!) and whenever in the thick of the action, a comic revelation.
I met Peter as his show was letting out. As we sprinted for the train, he raved about "Mary Poppins," good news to this future ticket-holder. We took the train from Charing Cross Station to Peter's friend Tony Younger's house in South London, in an agreeable neighborhood called Forest Hill.
Tony is a former Army man, now retired to the house in which he grew up, and a most charming and affable host. He made us tea and we caught up from our previous visit. (Peter and I had stayed with Tony on my visit in 2002.) We were joined by Min, a Korean student who is renting a room from him, and Tony's godson Jeremy. Jeremy is a handsome and burly man who enjoys hunting. During our conversation, rather disconcertingly, he gave us a demonstration of the process of cleaning a pheasant, luckily in mime rather than with an actual bird.
The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast, Peter and I took the train back to London. Peter had errands to run and I wanted to explore the wealth of bookstores on Charing Cross Road, so we parted and agreed to meet later at dinner. Once more I had the option of more adventurous eating, so had a dish of curried chicken at an Indian restaurant. Not bad, but for an enthusiast of Indian food, something of a letdown.
A greater letdown was yet to come. I found "Mary Poppins" to be a grossly overblown production, the additional new songs woefully inferior to the original songs from the film. When an old song was performed, I felt a perceptible lift, though even these were drowned in snowdrifts of gooey overproduction. The sweet original had become an inflated dinosaur of a production, with unnecessary story elements added, light effects which drew attention from the performers, and a three-hour playing time that would surely exhaust small children, for whom the story was created! For instance, in the number "Step in Time," a real rouser with less extraneous detail, the character of Bert, aided by wires, walked up the side of the proscenium, across the top, and back down the side. It stopped the number in its tracks and meant absolutely nothing. In other words, they did it because they could, and for no other reason. A couple of the effects, like Mary's final exit, lifted aloft above the crowd, were suitably effective.
The actors, when not engulfed in distracting production values, were fine. The lead, Laura Michelle Kelly, was perfect. The Bert was charming and, I suspect, a star in the making. Rosemary Ashe, a particular favorite of mine, was wasted, however, in a small and utterly extraneous role. Of course it will run for years, and of course it will come to Broadway, where it will again be a hot ticket. But good it ain't -- pure junk food.
I met Peter afterward and we walked down to the Thames, across the Hungerford bridge to the Old Vic. This venerable theatre, where I'd been only once before, is one of the grandest venues in all London, a magnet to the cream of British acting. This year they are presenting a professional Pantomime, "Aladdin." This was Peter's treat to me, and so I took him to a nearby Italian restaurant where we had a delightful meal. We had the prettiest little waitress I have ever seen, and she was pleased that I ordered in Italian, and generally made our meal a fine experience.
"Aladdin" turned out to be the supreme highlight of the trip. The star of the show was the great Shakespearian actor Ian McKellan, playing the Dame part: The Widow Twankey. I have seldom seen a more sidesplitting performance. He played the role with a campiness that I may never see equalled, and with a rich and hearty comic sensibility that I hardly suspected was there. Each of his costumes, as tradition dictates, was more outrageous than the previous one, and he swanned about in them like the master of comedy that he so clearly is. The other actors were hardly less wonderful, and the comic villain, Richard Allam, was McKellan's equal.
Everything was highly professional, and the sets were spectacular. The designer, unbelievably, is a prodigious 12-year-old girl who will assuredly go on to even bigger successes. The costumes and lighting were also near to perfection, and I was practically levitating as we left the theatre. This was an experience I'll long remember.
We got back to Tony's earlier than the previous evening, but went to bed before midnight this time, as our train back to Chester was at 10:45 and we had to travel across London -- during rush hour -- to return to Euston Station. I saw less of London itself than on previous visits, but what I saw was choice. And it was a great pleasure to see Tony again. (The last time I stayed with him I'd given him a book, the Complete Stories of Evelyn Waugh. It was just the right gift and he remembered it fondly, so last night I ordered a volume of Waugh's complete travel writings through Amazon and had it sent to him.)
The trip was a complete joy, and it's always a great treat to visit this "flowre of cities alle." Especially in the company of Peter Swingler.

The rehearsal schedule has stepped up now and for the rest of my time here, or at least until the 19th of February, I should be working harder. My gig as the dancing lead cop in "Consider Yourself" is getting better. Nightstick held perpendicularly, I lead sort of a flying wedge of six other cops down to the center of the stage, doing a sort of a knees-up-Mother-Brown, where we do a sort of crossover step for eight counts. Thereupon, I let a blast on my whistle and we prance off to the side to arrest some unseen malefactor. In "Oom-Pah-Pah" I'm just another drunken, lower-class reveler, grabbing wenches and knocking down pints of ale, no special steps. In "Who Will Buy?" I sing offstage since my scene as Dr. Grimwig is inserted into the middle of the song.
Saturday night I had an unusual and pleasant experience. My friend David and I were invited to a private concert in a private home. This was in a small town called Bollington. We dropped Peter off in Manchester, after having picked up a friend of David's named Michael Jessup. Michael sat in front reading directions to David as we took the most circuitous of routes to get there, by highway, country road and many a twisting byway. Finally we arrived. Bollington is set in some rather steep hills, and we had to park at the foot of one and walk up -- up a seeming 50-degree angle.
Val Makin was our hostess. I'd met her before, when I was over to perform in "The Sound of Music," and I had signed a copy of one of my books for her, for the artist who was appearing that evening, Andrew Wilde. Her house, at the crest of the mountain -- I mean hill -- is cozy and friendly, clearly the house of someone who has traveled widely. We settled into comfortable chairs and soon Wilde appeared.
Andrew Wilde is a plump, almost-young man with the look of a huge, bespectacled baby. He is rumored to be temperamental, and we saw a flash of it when he shot a sharp glance at a couple who began to applaud between the movements of one piece. He settled down and began the program with an adagio by Mozart, played with slow deliberation. The next item was Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata, followed by two nocturnes, then two scherzi by Chopin. His playing is expert, though the scherzi were a bit bombastic. The program was well-received so he gave us two encores, more Chopin. It was a good, safe program, but I wished he had gone a bit further outside the Romantics than Mozart.
Afterward, sandwiches and wine were passed about and we even spoke briefly with Wilde. He was quite pleasant, if a bit standoffish. A propos the Chopin nocturnes I mentioned a favorite modern piece of mine, likewise a nocturne, by Samuel Barber. He has performed the piece, it turned out, so I rather wished he had included this or something similar. Still, a good evening and a slightly unusual one.
I understand that a good deal of my native land is under snow, particularly New England. I promised myself I wouldn't brag, but I must confess that the TWO snows we've had here have lasted on the ground for hardly more than a couple of hours.
I must leave and have lunch at the Bumble Tea Room with Peter's delightful sister Maureen. More later.

Friday, January 28
Today I took the bus down to Oswestry, Shropshire. This was the childhood home of one of my friends back in Maryland. Dorothy Davies directed me in three plays, all by Noel Coward, "Blithe Spirit," "Hay Fever," and "Shadow Play." She and her husband Cyril were in their late 70s back then, so I imagine that both are likely dead by now. Nonetheless, I wanted to see the town that produced her.
The one hour bus trip was through glorious scenery, twisting roads through quirky villages. One sight was completely unexpected: a huge monkey puzzle tree as tall as a two story building. Oswestry is a typical market town, quite pleasant for a few hours. I enjoyed walking the narrow, labyrinthine streets, always thinking, "ah, yes, these are the streets that my old friend knew so well." Oswestry castle, at the top of steep winding steps, proved to be little more than a few outcroppings of rock and foundation stones, the rest of the building having been razed centuries before by some marauding army or another. The parish church of St. Oswald, almost a thousand years old, was fragrant with the ghostly incense of a millenium. The day had started sunny in Wrexham, but by the time I got back to the Oswestry bus station to wait for the return home, the sky was swollen with cold, black clouds. I huddled into my coat and longed for the fireside back at Peter and David's.

Saturday, January 29
This evening Peter and David were invited to Lee's for dinner; I was invited out to a small birthday party for another friend. (My social life may be slightly better here than in Boston!) Chris Dukes and I took Eric Jones and his partner Keith to dinner, to celebrate Eric's 60th birthday. The scene was a spectacular restaurant in Llangollen, the Cornmill. It's in an actual 18th century mill beside the river Dee. The river rushes by it -- and through it, as the wheel is still a working mill. This was the best meal I've had here yet and it was made all the better by the company. We downed champagne and a good red Italian wine and laughed like loons; these Welsh are born to party. My meal was a camembert and black grape tart, then roast chicken with a mushroom and red wine sauce, followed by a bread pudding with an apricot brandy sauce that I expect to be dreaming about for years. These delightful people plan to come to Boston next year...and if so, they will be welcome.

Sunday, January 30
Today was an all-day rehearsal. We began at 10:00 a.m. and ended at 5:00. Luckily I'd brought a book, Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd," but I finished it long before we ended. The play is coming together very well now, except for a couple of shaky spots and, regretfully, one of the performances. It's becoming obvious that Jonathan, the boy playing Oliver, is woefully inadequate. Leslie, our director, has been trying to cajole more of a real performance out of him, but to little avail. He is said to have auditioned brilliantly. But he has been giving less and less, and seems listless to the point of indifference. He is NOT a resourceful actor but must be told everything to do. At this point he can't be replaced, though one particular boy in the chorus could possibly do it. This kid, who comes in to deliver some books in my scene, is also one of the boys in the workhouse. When given a bowl of gruel, he looks mortally offended and when the real food is paraded past him to the workhouse sponsors, he projects a ferocious hunger. But it's too late to engage him. Jonathan could improve, though it seems less and less likely. At best, this might prove an interesting experiment, a play without a central character...
"Oliver!" is a pretty hoary old piece by now, overexposed over the years, and it’s only mounted because it brings in huge crowds. That said, I must say that it has a splendid score and the opening number, "Food, Glorious Food" is a rousing piece, a perfect song to set the tone. The show is blessed with some delicious character parts, and in this production they have been given to masters. Chris, my friend from the Saturday revels, is playing Mrs. Sowerberry, and her undertaker husband is played by Steve Davies, the former director of "Sound of Music." Theirs is a short scene with song, "That's Your Funeral," and they play it with the scintillating brilliance of true stars. They are not only screamingly funny, they are truly Dickensian. The other couple, the Widow Corney and Mr. Bumble, are played by Pat Pearce and Ken Williams, a new guy I didn't know before. Their scenes are so good that they almost throw the play off balance.

Monday, January 31
This has been one of the best days yet. I took the bus to Chester and met Leslie (our director) and Amy, one of the women in the chorus with whose husband Robin I have several bits with in two numbers. We started off with coffee at Cafe Nero and were joined by another lady, Wendy, whom I also knew from the earlier play. Wonderful. Lunch (without Wendy, however) was at a restaurant called Aquavit, nominally Scandinavian, but more acurately continental. Splendid food and company. This day was planned as my opportunity to get to know Leslie better, and it worked out even better, as Amy is pure gold, as warm and friendly as anyone could want. We were together for about five hours -- that passed like mere minutes. Then I came home to catch up on my email.
Peter has just brought me up a bowl of salad and a scotch egg. My cup runneth over -- again. Now wonder I feel so much at home here!

Friday, February 4
Today Peter took off work and gave me a grand tour of the Peak District and Buxton, a town I'd fallen in love with back in 1986. We shoved off at around ten, driving through the Cheshire countryside in an enchanting roundabout way. Peter even got lost at one point. The day was perfect, warm and still, with great puffs of white cloud in a mostly sunny sky. As we rose into the foothills of the Pennines, however, the day became more gray. But nothing could spoil our outing. The Peak District is shared by Cheshire and Derbyshire, and as we passed into the latter, towns melted away. The glorious mountains, smooth and green and not a bit craggy, are broken only by the very occasional farm. A lace fretwork of ancient low stone walls give the landscape the look of a vast green quilt draped over a mountain range. Our only companions were sheep. The road we were on is called, for some reason lost in the mists of time, the Cat and the Fiddle.
We reached Buxton about an hour and a half after starting. Buxton, in the heart of Derbyshire, was the site of one of the most enjoyable days in my life, which I have remembered with extraordinary vividness ever since that July day in 1986. About eight or nine of my British friends and I piled into two cars and drove to Buxton for a picnic and a day's pleasure. The sun shone; a band played in a gazebo above the park; duck families glided over the stream beside us as we spread our cloths for the picnic. After eating we piled into the cars again and drove a dozen miles to Ashford-in-the-Water, an idyllic village set above a lazy, meandering river. It struck me then as the most beautiful village I'd ever seen. Afterward we returned to Buxton to see a (not very good) musical, "Blood Brothers," in the Opera House, then returned to Wrexham. Ever since then I have remembered it with a fondness that has never faded.
But this was winter. No baby ducks plied the waters this time, only adult geese, ducks and swans. We found our old picnic spot, then walked to an old hotel pub for lunch. The Old Cock Pub is decorated from floor to ceiling with chickens -- ceramic chickens, framed chicken prints, chicken placemats, children's drawings of chickens -- you name it. In honor of the place I had a chicken tikka and cream cheese sandwich and a cream ale; the chickens looked down on us in silent reproach. From there we walked over to the Opera House, which was exactly as I remembered it, an ornate little jewel box. Buxton is an ancient spa, transformed during Victorian times into a resort for the rich and pampered, and it still retains a faded air of grandeur. Elegant buildings in the local gray stone rise above beautiful parkland, and the grandest one of all is a large indoor garden which, sadly, was closed for the season.
After checking out a couple of the local antique stores, we drove on to Ashford-in-the-Water. To me it still holds the title of most beautiful village I've seen, just as I'd hoped. Memory had played me false, however -- I remembered the stone as soft butterscotch brown, whereas it's actually a soft dove-gray. The famous Sheepwash Bridge spans the river Wye, which runs clean and clear, and even in winter it is home to great numbers of waterfowl. This time we stayed a bit longer and walked around the narrow streets. Everything is kept beautifully; it is very likely popular as a spot for filming, if an idyllic English village is called for. There are only a mere handful of shops, and all is still and calm. In the churchyard burial ground, snowdrops are blooming in profusion, and we even saw some crocus breaking the ground.
We drove north through tiny hamlets and broad farmlands, then got onto the highway to Manchester. I was to be dropped off to spend the night and next day with Phil Edwards, one of the delightful friends I made in the summer of 1985.
Having wearied of being burgled time and again in his old neighborhood, Phil has bought a new place. Phil himself is an outrageous and charming man with the broken nose of a prizefighter and the twinking eyes of an aging pixie, which he in fact is. Together we laugh more than is seemly in two men in our fifties, and his company is champagne. Peter dropped me off and drove back to Wrexham, and a bit later Phil and I drove down to central Manchester.
He had made reservations at a restaurant called Velvet. Velvet supposedly has a mostly gay clientele, but tonight there were as many straight couples as not. A palpable feeling of conviviality filled the room. I had a fine half a roast chicken with a mushroom risotto, faultlessly cooked and quite filling. Afterward we toured a couple of the local bars, Tribeca and the Rembrandt, then went back home to watch a movie.

Saturday, February 6
I have been fighting another damnable sinus thing for the past couple of days, and last night was somewhat difficult. But in the morning I was fine and rose at the scandalous time of 9:30. Phil fixed us breakfast, and we drove into the City Centre to the Manchester Art Gallery. This museum is a huge and varied gallery, with an enormous, first-rate collection of Victorian painting, the largest and finest I've seen. I have a soft spot for this detail-crammed, often sentimental, sometimes outright ludicrous style of painting; this was truly a banquet. Their European collection is fine and covers several centuries, but English art predominates here. Several special exhibitions were going on, including some spectacular 20th C. painting.
Our late lunch was at a huge and ornate bar, the Via Rosso. We returned to the house as the afternoon waned, and I relaxed while Phil showered for a dinner with his sister and some friends that night. He returned me to Wrexham and we parted. But even with a heavy rehearsal schedule from now till opening night I'm sure to see him again on this trip.
Tonight, Peter showed me that David has found a larger, louder police whistle than the one I’ve been using in "Consider Yourself." If anyone in the audience should fall asleep, this should wake them up. I'll find out tomorrow since we rehearse all day long.

Dear Friends and Family,
As of today, I return to you in less than three weeks. But of course I'm nowhere near ready to come back yet! Here are the details of a few days...

Sunday, Feb. 6
Today our rehearsal began at 10 in the morning and ran to 5:00. The first two hours were concerned with choreographing the curtain call -- when you have a cast of roughly forty, arranging this is more a matter of traffic control than stagecraft. In addition, there was reprise music to run over. One musical number, the title song, remained to be staged, then we ran the show.
We broke at five and tables were rearranged for Bingo -- but please don't skip to the next paragraph just yet. Bingo in the British Isles is different from ours. Here the game is big business and most towns of some size have a hall devoted strictly to it. It's generally played by the elderly and people of modest income, and huge cash prizes are promised -- and presumably given out. But our game was intended as a benefit for Tip Top Players, and the prizes ran more to chocolate and wine. Yankee Bingo provides piles of beans and cards with five columns, whereas the British give out pads of eight sheets, in nine columns numbered up to 90. The numbers are read off with unseemly speed, and one crosses them off with a pen. After the first four games, there's a break.
Three of the boys from the show were sitting at my end of the table, so I idly sketched a caricature of one of them on the back of one of my sheets. The other two boys naturally wanted drawings so I gladly drew them. I knew from prior experience what was in store for me at the regular rehearsal on Wednesday, so on Monday I bought a small drawing pad...

Tuesday, Feb. 8
Today I saw an old friend I first met in 1985. Jenny Glover is about my age and has always looked older, but the gap is widening more and more as the years go by. She has grown quite stout and subsequently has heart problems, and her hair is now snow white and alarmingly sparse. As her house swarms with cats, a visit there would have reduced me to a sneezing, eyes-watering, gelatinous mess. So we arranged to meet in town at her lunch hour. She still has the warmth and coziness of a teapot, but I wonder if her health will allow us to meet again.

Wednesday, Feb. 10
Today the sky was streaked with enormous blue patches with no threatening clouds, so I walked to the nearby village of Gresford, a roundtrip of about seven miles. First I stopped midway for lunch at The Beeches, the first pub Peter took me to on my arrival. Gresford is an old village, and I'd never seen much of it since the main road passes along the edge of town. As I walked along the Gresford High Street, I came upon a gorgeous pond, sprinkled with ducks and hundreds of small gulls. The sun was out in full, turning the water to blue and gold. Along the west side of the pond is a line of terraced houses, modest homes of red brick. How lucky, I thought, to be able to look out your window and see such an enchanting view! In a moment the wind changed direction and the smile died on my lips. The smell was indescribable, something between an uncleaned monkey cage and a week-old corpse. I rushed past to get to the center of the village, but the wind capriciously changed again and followed me all the way.
In the center of Gresford is a beautiful old gothic church, blackened with age and soot, and bristling with gargoyles. An ancient yew tree grows in the churchyard, and it's said to be at least 1600 years old; I believe it. Its cluster of trunks is as thick as a small house and the texture of the bark looked like a rushing, tumbling stream of brown water. I tried to go into the church but it was locked, so I wandered around looking at the gravestones, most of them worn smooth -- and unreadable -- with time. The oldest birthdate I could still manage to read was 1605. A sexton was attending to one of the graves so I stopped for a moment to chat with him. He assured me of the tree's date, but as he was a mere sprout in his seventies, I can only take his word for it.
I braced myself for the pond stench as I made my way back to the main road, stepping up my pace. I heard a soft clip-clop behind me. A young woman in full riding silks and a riding cap was seated on a shaggy white percheron, shambling along lazily; they clopped along beside me for a spell. I was irresistibly reminded of one of those Thelwell cartoons from the old Punch Magazine.
All along my route I noticed that crocuses have popped up all over the place, and daffodils are everywhere. I saw two trees covered with little white blooms. February be damned, spring has definitely arrived in Wales.
At rehearsal it happened just as I predicted: the boys in the show came at me in a solid wave, clamoring to be drawn. I pulled my pad out and opened my pen and in a surprisingly orderly manner they sat for me one at a time. I'm fast, thank heaven, and took hardly more than a minute to do each one. Every now and then I had to take a break to actually rehearse, but at the end of the evening my pad had been reduced to one lone sheet. There are still some boys to draw yet, and the grownups have been hinting broadly that they'd like drawings too, so I guess my fate is sealed. Luckily, I enjoy it all immensely. Kids are the best damn audience in the world.

Thursday, Feb. 10
Bought a new pad today. On your mark... get set... go!

Saturday Feb. 12
In the morning Peter and David and I piled into the car and drove up to Port Sunlight, a community built by Lord Lever for the employees of the company he founded, Lever Brothers. It's a gorgeous town, built very much in Ye Olde Englishe style, but with a neat grid to the streets and spacious, well-maintained lawns. The premiere attraction of the town is the Lady Lever Museum, a grand art gallery in a beautiful belle epoque building. It's a smallish collection, very good, though hung badly. Glass has been placed over most of the large oils, and too many of them are placed, in the good ol' 19th century manner, too high to appreciate fully.
Afterward, Peter drove me to our rehearsal spaces to pick up my costumes. The dancing policeman costume is very Keystone Kops, surmounted by a tall black felt hat; the drunken reveler costume is nothing more than frowsy looking pants and shirt, with a rough suede overjacket. I'll look like a blacksmith or a common laborer out for a bit of drink and a willing wench. But the Dr. Grimwig costume! The man is clearly intended to be a human peacock: high purple pants, a plum colored jacket in the Regency style, a wild paisley waistcoat with an ascot tie in the same pattern. It's quite the most elaborate rig I've been fitted for in thirty years of doing theatre.

Sunday Feb. 13
Today was long and arduous, a typical tech Sunday; nobody on earth could enjoy such a day. We began at 2:30 in the afternoon with the announcement that several pieces of set had not yet arrived. The tech crew put the quite complicated set together laboriously -- but thoroughly -- so we were even later in starting. Typically, the show was done in short fits and starts, with no scene played out to the end. After a short break for dinner, we had our one and only dress rehearsal. I was concerned about my costume change from low barfly to the elegant Dr. Grimwig, but managed to put it together with time to spare. The cast seemed quite happy at the end, and Leslie, our director, was jubilant. I forsee a happy run.

Monday Feb. 14, Valentine's day
The day began bright and sunny, with only a few clouds in the sky, a most propitious beginning. I walked downtown in the glorious sunshine, grooving on the flowers that are springing up everywhere. Even the hedges are budding leaves and blooms, and by the time I'm ready to fly back to America, the springtime here should be even further along. One dark thought spoils it all: this is all certainly due to global warming, that phenomenon that our Commander-in-Chimp doesn't think is a problem. Still, it's hard not to delight in the physical world when the sun is out in full. I walked down into a new part of Wrexham, a winding green parkway south of town, then back to the town centre for lunch at La Baguette.
Opening night. An hour before curtain, Leslie and Peter addressed the company. Peter was practically levitating with pleasure. Opening night was sold out except for two single seats at the very back of the theatre -- which seats 430. And the rest of the run seems to be sold out except for a handful of single seats on Saturday. Those will be sold, too. That means that by the end of the run we will have entertained about 3000 people. Leslie gave us a few notes. I had two. My opening line as Dr. Grimwig tends to be swallowed by the scene change, so I'm going to have to bellow it like a Wagnerian tenor. And as the dancing policeman, I'm going to have to change into smaller black shoes, which pleases me. The heavy boots they gave me to dance in have been quite clumsy; imagine hoofing with two heavy loaves of bread strapped to your feet.
The show began well, continued even better, and our pace was brisk and efficient. This is due in part to Simon Phillips, our music director, who has consistently played his tempi more briskly than is generally done. We also have a crackerjack crew, who kept the set changes moving smoothly. The opening number, "Food, Glorious Food" is performed marvelously by the boys, who as far as I'm concerned are the true stars of the show. The audience is clearly in love with the lot of them. The part of the set that I do my scene on is inconsequential, but the other pieces make up for it. Fagin's den, in particular, is a marvel.
The most effective part of the show, I think, is Bill Sikes's murder of Nancy. It is nothing short of harrowing, and her cries for mercy are heartrending. After his attempt to strangle her has failed, leaving her weak and on her knees, he pushes her backward with his foot and finishes the job with a club. (To add a note of realism, the crew has placed a cauliflower out of sight for him to club, providing a sickeningly convincing sound.) A few minutes later, Bill himself is shot while trying to crawl up a ladder. He makes it halfway up, and is shot again, falling down onto the bridge, then down steps. It's most gratifying to see this monster meet such a dramatic end. Leslie has added a touch of grace to the final scene which is not in the libretto. Nancy's body is still lying high on the bridge while Oliver, saved, is taken offstage by Mr. Brownlow. It's always seemed to me a shame that this young woman, who has saved the boy's life, lies forgotten at the end. Leslie has brought Bet, Nancy's young companion, onto the stage to weep over her friend as the curtain falls.
The audience's response was gratifying, and our first night -- which is always a bit ragged -- was deemed a roaring success. Leslie was joyful -- and so were we.

Wednesday Feb. 16
Last night was a repeat of opening night, with everything running just a bit more smoothly. And today the sun is shining again.

February 27
Dear Friends and Family,
The play ended yesterday with two solid, sold-out, and very well-received performances. After Friday night's performance about twenty of us went out to a local Chinese restaurant, Cherry Valley, for a massive Chinese blowout -- course after course after course. Throwing all restraint to the winds I wolfed down everything that was put before me, making for a most uncomfortable night. The company and the occasion made it all worthwhile but I must confess to having felt decidedly delicate in the morning.
Lee Hassett picked me up at noon for the matinee. It felt strange to perform in the daytime after so many evening performances, and everyone seemed markedly closer as we approach the end. Ours is a huge cast, forty adults and thirty boys, so I only got to know about fifteen or twenty people well -- in addition to the friends I made during "The Sound of Music."
The performance was pitch perfect, and moved quickly. Since we had about 3 and a half hours between shows I had a sandwich and coffee in the theatre bar with Peter and several of the cast members, then went down to our basement dressing room to read before the others returned for the final costuming.
For the first time since the late rehearsals, I stood in the wings and watched the entire show -- except the scenes in which I appeared, of course. Just before curtain, I stepped out onto the stage and quietly told the assembled boys how much I had enjoyed getting to know them, and how impressed I was with the work they've been doing. They were delighted, and I could see that my having sat down to draw for them had truly paid off. Since that time two or three weeks ago, they have sort of adopted me as a mascot and my affection for them has grown and grown. Three or four of them have become favorites, naturally, but they are all delightful performers, and together, are truly the soul of the show.
I loved the show seen in this intimate way, and it was gratifying to see that Jonathan, our Oliver, has fulfilled every expectation. His indifferent playing in the later rehearsals has disappeared, and in our week onstage he has given a rich, deeply-felt performance. He clearly has that one thing that talent and work are useless without: an unforced charm that audience can't help but respond to. The show, as usual, moved along briskly, due largely to that smoothly running machine, our crew.
During the run of the play I went through most of two drawing tablets drawing caricatures of the boys and the rest of the cast. As I was leaving the stage, one of the stagehands, a chubby, pleasant young man, shyly asked if I would draw him, too. So as they dismantled the set for the warehouse, I stood about and drew them all, to their delight. What a wonderful tool drawing is for breaking the ice.
In the theatre bar afterwards, we said our goodbyes, although there is to be one last party tonight; forty people have made reservations. I'll miss these wonderful players, especially the boys. It's heartbreaking to think that I'll almost certainly never see them again. Though I've always prided myself on being an uncle to multitudes, sometimes I think I might have made a pretty good father myself...
It has been a lazy, pleasant day, with periods of bright sunshine, and Peter and David and I have hardly done anything but read the papers. In times past, the end of a show brought days of melancholy. Now I feel only a mild regret, a nameless emptiness, and it never lasts for long. And tomorrow I fly to Dublin!

Dear Friends and Family,
I'm sitting in an internet cafe just a few steps from my hotel, aching with exhaustion but deliriously happy. Dublin is delight upon delight, a city rich in sights, literary associations, and wonderful good manners-- which I've always valued.
My flight from Liverpool (yesterday) took less than an hour, and a bus whisked me into the city center in half an hour. My hotel, an almost too-modest establishment called the Charles Stewart, was right on the bus route. It's a tiny, worn establishment, the birthplace of Irish writer (and surgeon!) Oliver St. John Gogarty, a great pal of James Joyce, my literary hero. My room is about the size of one of my closets, but clean and comfortable. I unpacked and immediately hit the street.
Within the first half hour of walking I was greeted by rain, a light snow, and hail! Then later the sun came out in full as I was walking through the park. Dublin is small and compact, and eminently walkable. I liked the city immediately (no surprise to anyone who knows me) but as I entered the magnificent park St. Stephen's Green, like turned to love. It must be the loveliest park in Europe. At once the sun came out, and my happiness was only increased by the cup of hot chocolate I'd brought with me. There is a series of chocolate shops, Butler's, throughout the city, and they make an exquisite cup of the stuff. I proceeded to Merrion Square, and walked all around it reading the plaques on the buildings. The Duke of Wellington was born there, as was Oscar Wilde. Across from chez Oscar is a sculpture of him, lounging on a huge rock. It doesn't quite look like the Wilde I know from photos, but is a nice tribute anyway.
I found the Irish National Gallery not a block away and walked in for the few more minutes it was open, determined to return the following day. I managed to see a couple of the galleries, a tempting foretaste of what's to come.
Temple Bar, the area south of the Liffey, is glutted with restaurants and I finally settled on Italian, The Botticelli, and had a large pizza. Afterward I was so tired from my long hike that I decided to make it a short evening. This was helped by the disconcerting Dublin habit of closing everything up early. A multiplex on O'Connell Street was playing an American romantic comedy (“In Good Company”) and I settled down to enjoy it.

Tuesday, Feb. 22
I started off in the hotel restaurant with a hearty breakfast, which comes with the room. My ultimate goal was the National Gallery, but I first stopped to do a bit of shopping, a birthday gift for my cousin Lisa. I was able to buy it, have it wrapped, and buy a box from the stationer's next door, AND mail it within one hour. From there -- on to the Gallery.
This is a wonderful collection, with much Irish art, including a long gallery devoted to the Yeats family. The poet's father and brother were both fine painters, and so, to my surprise, was his sister. Fine work, but nothing to William Butler Yeats's incredible verse.
To my delight, the museum has a huge collection of painting from the Italian Renaissance, and a glorious Vermeer as well, one of the rarest of the rare. I stopped only to have a slice of fudge tart and a bottle of water, which was lunch enough for me. I spent a long time in the museum shop, one of the best I've seen.
Dublin's Francis Street is the place for antique shopping, so I repaired there. A gentle rain had started, but hardly worth putting up an umbrella for, and I made a special effort to include St. Stephen's Green on my route. The antique shops were plentiful, but most of the stuff was wildly out of my range, just as well since my packing for my return is going to require herculean effort simply to squeeze everything in. Several of the shop owners were quite friendly, and all of them mentioned the cold, which is nothing. I assured them that the Boston weather was much colder.
The friendliness has been my greatest and best surprise. As I was looking for a bureau de change on my first walk down O'Connell Street, I got into a conversation with a charming man coming out of a pub, who gave me advice. He was pleasant and curious about Boston. And before the movie yesterday I stopped at another pub, Madigan's, for a half pint of Guinness, and the man at the next stool politely engaged me in conversation, just enough to be friendly, and allowed me to return to my book. Ah, these Irish!

Dear Friends and Family,
Wednesday was another typical Dublin day: rain, hail (again!), snow, and bright sun. I got up early to walk north to see the Hugh Lane, a museum of modern art I was very much looking forward to seeing. But it is closed till April! I was quite chagrinned at missing a wonderful collection. I headed farther north, just to exercise, and happened onto Eccles Street, where Joyce's Leopold Bloom, the most real, the most human of literary characters, started his long day's journey into Nighttown in "Ulysses." Number 7, his house, has been torn down (but hey, he wasn't real!), so I walked back to the museum next to the Hugh Lane, the Irish Writer's museum. It was a joy, of course and held me for three hours. I haven't a trace of Irish in me, but my head is crammed with Irish literature so I had a lovely time.
Lunch was in a bookstore cafe, and then I walked over to Trinity College. I didn't particularly want to see the Book of Kells, but wandered over the large campus. The kind host at my hotel had given me a map that went a bit further than the one in my guidebook, so I wandered south to see if I could find the house where George Bernard Shaw was born. I lucked out, and found it. It's a shockingly modest place, but in a delightful neighborhood (I was expecting a slum), and found out that there is SO much more to Dublin than the tourists' area. That part of town is lively and lovely and very much like an American city, though with a different flavor. I'd been told that Dublin is fine for a few days visit but quite dull after that. I have not found it so at all; it keeps revealing itself to me like a set of nesting Russian dolls.
I found a wonderful market, just before closing, and was able to buy some foreign coins for the daughter of a friend of mine from Natick. I wandered about the city, making my by-now-necessary walk through St. Stephen's Green, this time with a cup of hot white chocolate (!) in my happy hand. Dinner was at a delightful Irish bar, O'Neill's, so very much like my neighborhood's Doyle's, but a bit grander, lots of gleaming mirrors and mahogany wood. I had a poached salmon piled high with salad and steamed snow peas -- heaven.
Today, Thursday, I did a bit of shopping --and mailing-- then went to the Irish National Museum. It was a trip through time to the ancient Bog People, the Vikings, and even the Egyptians. Delight upon delight. I had a fiery dish of Thai Chicken and Rice at an interesting little hole in the wall on Dame Street, with high Georgian ceilings and the walls painted a dim series of VERY ODD pastels, a pale light filtering through a skylight. But the food was sublime.
The Chester Beatty Library was next, in Dublin Castle. This collection was amassed by an American mining engineer, a wonderful philanthropist who endowed the Irish people with this stunning collection of old manuscripts, Islamic, Oriental, etc., with an addition of Asian art. I spent two hours there, then went walking in the castle gardens. I stumbled across a bizarre fountain hidden away in a corner. The figure in it is a huge coiled snake worked in blue and clear glass, and was something I imagine many visitors miss altogether.
Dinner was at the Twenty Twenty, ostensibly Persian, though I saw no evidence of it. My pasta dish was perfect and I am, at the moment, logy with red wine and food, glorious food, and happy as is humanly possible.

Friday, Feb. 25
On Friday morning I stopped by Butler's for another fabulous hot chocolate (this is getting to be a serious addiction), then got a ticket for a bus tour of the south coast. This was scheduled to last for four and a half hours. We boarded at 11:00. Our guide was a middle-aged leprechaun named Richard Kelly. He began by telling us he had serious bad news for us -- but his demeanor clearly indicated that he was having us on. This bad news was that the tour was going to have to let us off three blocks away instead of at the starting-off point. I figured we were in for a good deal of classic blarney when traffic forced us to stop briefly at a rusty old overhead railway bridge, the beauty of which he began extolling at length. We continued down the Liffey toward the sea, and into the lovely seaside suburb of Sandycove. The Irish sea was rolling in in huge brown waves, and the sky was nearly clear except for some huge cumulus clouds to the north. We continued down the coast to Sandymount, and the martello tower where "Ulysses" began, with 'Stately, plump Buck Mulligan' greeting the morning. Joyce based Mulligan, it is said, on the poet and wit Oliver St. John Gogarty, who was born in the house which is now my hotel.
At the resort town of Bray we stopped to 'have a pee and smell the sea,' and where the poor addicts among us could get out and smoke a cigarette. Bray is charming, a large town fronting the sea, which did indeed smell wonderful. We next hit Dalkey, which our guide told us is something of a magnet for celebrities (Angelica Huston, Mel Gibson, Sean Penn). At Blackrock we turned inland, into the Wicklow mountains; some of the distant peaks were still coated with light snow. Our ultimate goal was Powerscourt, reached by way of some of the loveliest scenery I've seen on this trip. At the main gate Mr. Kelly squeezed the bus through a stone gate with only a couple of inches leeway on each side, a feat I could never have managed.
Powerscourt is a stately mansion with acres and acres of formal garden. We were given an hour and a half to tour the place, which I thought was more than generous. It turned out to be the very minimum we could have wished. Lunch in the Powerscourt restaurant was perhaps the best meal I had in Ireland, a large salmon cake accompanied by three generous salads. It was so huge a meal that I had to pass up the most delectable tray of sweets you can imagine, but my lunch was more than satisfying.
It was colder here than in the city, so I bundled up and marched into the formal garden. The garden is quiet and mysterious; one could almost imagine gryphons or winged horses glaring balefully at one from the undergrowth. It took most of the remaining hour after the meal to explore. Tall trees of all species grow thickly here, but to my chagrin the identifying tags were in Gaelic! I climbed the steep hill to the Pepperpot tower, an ancient crenellated round tower guarded by several cannon. I suspect this predates the estate and main house. Further on are Japanese gardens, which were more English than Asian, with a mossy gothic rock grotto set into one corner.
In the center of the gardens is a lake, with a bronze copy of Bernini's triton fountain in the center -- a lovely reminder of Rome. A handful of waterfowl shivered in a small flock at one end. Up a slight hill I found the family's pet cemetery. The earliest stone is from 1901, commemorating a favorite borzoi. There's even a stone for Eugenie, a cow! I noticed that the time was moving along faster than I'd expected, and Mr. Kelly had warned us that the bus would leave exactly on time. I stepped up my pace.
The ride back to Dublin was further inland, and just as scenically satisfying as the route down. We approached Dublin through the suburb of Donnybrook (yes, such a place actually exists) and on into the city. Our first familiar sight was my beloved St. Stephen's Green.
All along our tour Mr. Kelly kept up a running commentary, even breaking into song on several occasions. He was witty and learned and highly knowledgable about Ireland's history, even its geology. I hated for our journey to end.
That evening I decided to return to O'Neill's for dinner. O'Neill's may be a typical Irish pub (I didn't go into very many), but I doubt it; it is distinctly quirky. It's not one bar, but a series of small, sociable rooms cobbled together, situated on several levels. When I arrived the dinner crowd had definitely beaten me but I wandered through the place and finally managed to nail down an empty table. I ordered an ale and left it along with my bag and book to order food. Lunch had been such a Luccullan feed that I wanted no more than a sandwich. The counterman, a tall and beautiful young man with enormous ears, had clearly been working there for only a short time. I ordered the veggie delux, and he looked at me in sheer panic. He didn't seem to quite know what he was doing, so, worried that someone might lay claim to my table, I went back to sip on my ale and read for a short spell. When I finally got the sandwich the promised goat cheese was nowhere in evidence. He had merely put a green salad between two slices of bread and grilled it. After a few exploratory bites, I took it back up and the colleen at the bar said, "Oh, dear, he's me brother, and he IS new... I'll get you another." The replacement was fine and I lingered over dinner as long as I could. I'd bought a small sketchbook that morning, so I did a few caricatures of unsuspecting denizens of the bar.

Saturday, Feb. 26
Dublin presented me with one final gift: a flawless blue sky and warm sunshine. My flight was in mid-afternoon so I treated myself to one last stroll through the city. For the first time since my first day St. Stephen's Green was sunny and filled with people enjoying the balmy weather. There is, I found, much more to it than I'd suspected. In one corner was an almost-hidden monument to Yeats by Henry Moore. From one angle it looked more like a monumental pelvic bone from some strange creature, but as I walked around it, it took on a distinct likeness to the Max Beerbohm caricature of the young poet, languid and self-conscious of his growing fame. It occurred to me that I hadn't really explored Merrion Square, only walked around it, so I walked the few blocks there. It's a wonderful park, with hidden gardens, formal and rich.
Dublin has its beggars, but I've seen no more on my whole trip than one sees in three blocks along Boston's Newbury Street. But today there were at least five on my walk back to the hotel. I picked up my bag and got the bus to the airport.
This city made a wonderful first impression on me. It is a delight for tourists, but I think it must be an even better place to live and work. Since most shops snap shut at precisely six o'clock, tourists can only dine or drink, or go to the theatre. It's a modern, prosperous city, just as Ireland now seems a forward-looking, confident country, no longer the despair of Joyce and Samuel Beckett, the "sow that eats her own farrow." I'll be back.
Peter picked me up at the Liverpool airport and drove me home. A dinner was planned for that evening at Chez Jules, a French restaurant in Chester. It was a very festive party, wine-soaked and delightful in every way. There were twelve of us, and all are now friends of mine except a new couple I hadn't met. I finally had a chance to get to know Pam, our choreographer, a bit better. She is a great Dublin enthusiast. The food was so sublime I won't even go into it, and the company was even better. They shooed us out at nine, and we moved the party to Wrexham, to our local pub, the Acton Park. A glorious end to my trip.
The next morning Peter and Maureen took me to the airport and I headed home. My flight was smooth till Philadelphia. There, my plane was delayed for an hour, but on my arrival at Logan Toby was there to meet me, the happiest greeting I could hope for. My bag was lost and he patiently waited while I flew frantically through the masses of bags stacked up in the storage area. I never could find it. At long last I contacted an agent who assured me that my bag would be sent out the following day.
Robert Dimmick was waiting at the house, having turned on the heat for me and provided a vase of cut flowers. He and Toby and I went down to Doyle’s, then back to Robert’s for a final liqueur. I was in bed by midnight, and, if mildly disconcerted by the huge piles of snow on the streets, delighted to be home.

Spain 2000

2008-07-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

Spain 2000

August 31 - Friday, September 1
I saw the first great sight of my trip to Spain while flying southwest from Amsterdam — Paris. There was no mistaking it for anywhere else; Paris is the largest city in Europe. I strained to see the great sights -- the Eiffel Tower, the long boulevards, the Arch de Triomphe, but inconvenient clouds impeded my view.
I could positively identify nothing else until we approached the Pyrenees. Far off to the right, the Bay of Biscay shimmered in the sun. Biarritz lay along the coast in clusters of green. The terrain changed radically as we passed over the mountains. The French are fond of quipping that Africa begins south of the Pyrenees. And yes, from the air Spain is radically different from the voluptuous rolling hills of France. If France is feminine, then Spain is masculine, hard, sere and uncompromising. The appearance of the country from the air is almost surreal: oddly-shaped patches of browns, earth reds, ochres, carved with difficulty from the stubborn land, and stippled with dots of blackish green.
We dropped slowly to earth and I was finally in Spain, a dream since the summer of 1968, when I first read James Michener’s Iberia. I’d explored Spain only through its cuisine and its music, but its essence remained a mystery.
In the Madrid airport I became hopelessly lost trying to find the baggage carousel. I raced from terminal to terminal, certain that my abandoned bags would be carried off by someone else. I needn’t have worried. When I finally retrieved my luggage from the carousel and asked directions to the bus for town, I was immediately stopped by a stone-faced member of the Guardia Civil. He demanded to see my boarding pass and baggage claims. When he was satisfied that I wasn’t trying to carry off someone else’s stuff, he waved me on with a reptilian smile. Just as I arrived at the curb so did the bus. The fare into town was ludicrously cheap — a good sign of what was to come. The bus, after a short ride through dusty suburbs, deposited me in the Plaza Colon.
According to the map the Hotel Monaco is only a few blocks from the Plaza, so I donned my sunglasses and set out, charged with energy. The Monaco was farther away than I thought and the day was hotter than it seemed at first. By the time I reached the Gran Via, I was panting and my face gave off that unhealthy heat signaling the onset of dehydration. But the hotel was close; I pressed on.
From the end of World War I to the 1950s the Hotel Monaco was an elegant brothel famed throughout all Spain. Even the king, it’s said, came there to, well, come there. The elegance has long faded, but the vague suggestion of a whorehouse remains, evident in small details. The lobby is sumptuous, furnished with gilt mirrors and an overblown mural of some feminine spirit in the toils of ecstasy. The desk was manned by a male clerk of startling beauty (he would be a welcome sight on subsequent returns to the hotel.) Alas, his English was even more primitive than my Spanish. Eventually cutting through the linguistic fog we finally established that my room had indeed been reserved by Señor Delamere, and that one of our party had checked in half an hour before. This was Steve Dumble, the only one of our quartet whom I didn’t know.
I piled my bags into the tiny elevator, which painfully creaked up to my room on the second floor. This room had decidedly not been the chamber of the royal favorite. It was small but neat, with a comfortable bed and a small fan which turned out to be a godsend through the warm nights. The extravagant decorative scheme of the lobby ended at the elevator. This room’s decor had stopped in its tracks somewhere around Rita Hayworth’s early career. The bathroom was so tiny that one could perform virtually any duty required by simply turning in another direction, squatting or rising as the occasion demanded. But I didn’t care. I was more than ready to get out and explore the city, so I unpacked a couple of things and called Steve’s room. If I was going to be touring Spain for twelve days with a perfect stranger it seemed a good idea to meet him as soon as possible.
Steve Dumble is an affable man, tall, heavyish, with short hair, glasses, and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He emanates hearty good will and in less than two minutes after meeting we were firm friends. And what do new friends do? Well, they can set out for a bite to eat.
We settled on a sidewalk café near the Puerta del Sol, the Armenia. Over a couple of beers and some indifferent tapas, we filled in the details of our lives. Steve lives in Swanage, South Wales with a partner named David, in a reconverted stone water tower which they have cleverly adapted into a home. Steve has performed in a considerable number of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas in the bass-baritone roles. He has known David Delamere for ages. In fact, David introduced him to his partner.
After our little refreshment, we wandered on to explore Madrid further. We stopped at another bar for two coffees, then walked half a block to the Plaza Mayor, a flagstoned meadow almost completely deserted in the hot haze of siesta time. A pigeon-bespattered equestrian figure of King Philip II dominates the square, but our focus was the tourist office. We wanted primarily to find out if there were any music or theatre events going on in the city, and I was looking for something in particular.
The zarzuela is something like an operetta but with a pronounced Spanish flavor. I was acquainted with them through a handful of recordings and wanted to explore the form better, preferably through performance. But the clerk at the office told us sadly that we were both too late and too early: a couple of zarzuelas had been performed in the summer and more would come later, but the official season was not yet started. Well then, I reasoned, I could compensate by buying more recordings. Here in Spain they would surely be easier to find.
The bullfighting season was still going strong, and the next performance in Madrid was scheduled for Sunday afternoon at six. I knew I’d need a hat, so I began my search immediately in the shops lining the Plaza Mayor. I found nothing in my size, but on Sunday morning the large outdoor market El Rastro would surely provide something suitable.
For dinner, we stopped and made reservations at a restaurant recommended by my guidebook, La Barraca, then returned half an hour later. This is a well-established place known for the best paella in Madrid, and since paella is my favorite dish in all the world, this was clearly the right choice. It has been a Madrid fixture apparently since the 1950s. Pictures on the walls show Cary Grant, Grace Kelly and her prince, and Arthur Rubinstein all dining happily — though not together. The restaurant meanders through several cozy and discreetly lit rooms, with copper pots and decorative plates on the walls. As soon as we sat down I was seized with a powerful thirst; we ordered a large bottle of mineral water. We chose to dine on one of the special all-seafood paellas, accompanied by a marvelous red rioja, El Coto. The paella was perfection and the restaurant itself is an attractive place, so a return was inevitable.
Reluctant to bring a perfect evening to a close, we walked a couple of blocks north of The Monaco into the Pink District, the lively gay area of Madrid, for coffee. It had been a long day since I left Boston, so I left Steve to explore and was back at the hotel and in bed by midnight.

Saturday, September 2
I was awakened at 9:30 by a jangling phone. It was David. He and Fred had arrived late the previous evening and they were eager for me to come down and join the party. I performed my ablutions on the double, even hopping into the shower with my watch on (it survived its bath). With mounting joy, I sped down to the lobby, and arrived to hugs and kisses. David is one of my closest, dearest English friends. I’ve known him for fourteen happy years, and we began to plan this trip two summers ago. We were joined during the planning stages by Fred Evans, a mutual friend who lives in Wrexham, North Wales. Fred is 62 but seems much older, with the starchy and pedagogical air of a retired schoolmaster, which in fact he is. He is also a shrieking hypochondriac, inclined to pamper himself like Aunt Pittypat. That isn’t to say that Fred can’t twinkle; he can, especially when the talk turns to show music, Sondheim in particular.
After a coffee in the lobby we moved down the street to a corner bar for a fairly unconventional breakfast consisting largely of seafood, then lit out for the Prado.
At the Plaza de Cibeles we turned down a wide boulevard shaded by enormous plane trees, the Paseo del Prado. Inside the museum, we split up; it’s impossible for four people to go through an art collection at the same pace and an artist is inclined to linger over favorites. They agreed to meet me at the entrance at 3:30.
The Prado needs no introduction; it is one of the world’s supreme museums, and the greatest collection of Spanish painting on earth. Everyone’s favorites are the masterful canvases of Velázquez. Las Meninas in particular benefitted by being actually seen; in reproduction, one fails to appreciate its impressive depth of field. Fans of El Greco can find in the Prado everything they can possibly want; I admire the painter without really liking him. I was drawn to Goya’s so-called black paintings, the tortured expression of a mad old man. But I stood longest in front of Bosch’s great triptych, “The Garden of Delights.” In this unbelievable fantasia, even hell is attractive. The work has been recently restored, and it glows like paradise itself. Four hours later I still hadn’t seen everything I wanted to see, but I couldn’t keep my friends waiting. By the time we met, they had already eaten, so I had an ice cream on a stick as we walked beneath the plane trees.
We stopped at an outdoor café for beer, then headed for the Plaza Mayor. The ice cream hadn’t made much of a dent, so I stopped at a small, dark café. The burly barman made me a sandwich of manchego cheese while two old people, his mother and father, entertained me as far as our mutual incomprehension would allow. Out of frustration I lapsed into Italian — and hit pay dirt. The father was from Venice. I extolled the charms of his native city at impassioned length and the old man beamed with delight. The sandwich was plain and good, if a bit of hard work to chew; the cheese is flavorful and similar to parmesan, though not quite as dry.
David and Fred hadn’t seen the Plaza Mayor yet, but as it was again siesta time it didn’t take us long to exhaust its arid charms. On the previous day Steve and I had found a chocolateria nearby which we’d hoped to return to, but now it was closed.
Steve went back to the hotel to rest. (Rest? What’s that?) David and Fred and I wanted to see the Palacio Real, which dominates the western end of the city. The inviting gardens of Plaza de Oriente are spread before it like a green banquet, so we sat beside the gardens at a café and had another beer. It was around 7:00. The day was cooling off as the rich clear blue of the sky deepened. The Palacio Real itself was just an 18th century pile, with no more architectural distinction than Buckingham Palace. Walking to the public gardens at the side of the palace, we were surprised to see countryside behind the palace, the bare hills of central Spain. The city abruptly ends at the palace walls, with no fading off into suburbs. The Manzanares River runs below the palace but we couldn’t see it.
After going through the part of the gardens allowed to the public, we headed back toward the hotel. I stopped at a large department store, El Corte Ingles, to look for zarzuela CDs, and found five. I returned to the hotel and collected the chaps, and we walked three blocks north to Chueca Square for a pre-dinner drink at a busy café under the dusty trees. (We hadn’t yet fallen into our later gin-and-tonic routine.) Shortly it was time to return to the restaurant where we’d made reservations.
The Carmencita was formerly a local tavern for impoverished intellectuals, established in 1850. It is now a modest and attractive restaurant. The waitress in charge was very frank about not speaking English and my Spanish, I’m sorry to admit, was virtually worthless — though pronounced beautifully. We were given a plate of bright red chorizo, huge wedges of bread, and we ordered a by-now obligatory bottle of red rioja. I started with vichyssoise garnished with a dab of black caviar. The soup was sinfully creamy, like mainlining cholesterol. But no matter: it was here and I was ready for it. My main dish was partridge, served cold in a savory fruit sauce. It was heavenly, but a pincushion of small, treacherous bones. Only the dessert was a disappointment, a pot of custard devoid of sweetness, served with a separate pot of honey.
I was in bed before midnight.

Sunday, September 3
We met at 9:45 in the lobby and took the Metro from Chueca Square to El Rastro. This huge outdoor market goes on for the better part of a mile on Calle de la Ribera de Curtidores, spilling out onto the adjoining streets. First we stopped at a bakery for coffee and obscenely decadent pastries bursting with marzipan. After going through the market for about a block, we lost one another momentarily. I suggested that if we did so again, we should meet at the subway stop at 1:30, and in under a minute I had lost them again. I enjoyed the pushing crowds, the delicious weather, but nothing tempted me. I did find my straw hat, a pert number which cost me the equivalent of about $4.50.
At the café by the Metro stop, we had a pitcher of sangria. Spanish sangria, it turns out, is much less potent than its American cousin, more like a light wine punch and very sugary. But it was a hot afternoon and we slurped it up greedily.
The day was too lovely to take the Metro again, so we strolled north toward the Plaza Mayor. Our eye landed on Taberna la Percha; the posted bill of fare tempted us to try it for lunch. We had a good deal of sport over the hilariously innocent translation of the menu, which featured such quaint items as: illustrated salad, smashed eggs with ham, breadcrumbs of the shepherd, and (this really got us going) meatballs of the parish priest. The fixed menu was a bargain: a great seafood salad, rough red wine, and roast lamb which, oddly enough, I didn’t dislike. We finished with flan, sheer rapture.
Our chocolateria was nearby. Now we would have our treat. The Spanish, I was told, prefer their chocolate richer and denser than we do. But the chocolateria was again closed. Back at the hotel, we separated. This was my first chance to see a bullfight, so I took the trusty Metro to Las Ventas, the bullring in the northeast part of the city.
I said goodbye to my brave compañeros. They had other, less bloody plans: the ballet.
Las Ventas is large and architecturally a treat to the eye, Moorish brickwork and tiles, arches and arabesques. I took several photos of it, and dodged whizzing cars to reach a traffic island so I could shoot the whole structure from across the street. A gust of wind blew my hat off and carried it into the middle of a huge patch of prickly stuff. I waded into it, and a familiar, pungent scent rose to my nose — rosemary. I broke off several twigs and put them into my bag. Back at the box office, I bought my ticket, but no one was admitted till five. A seller in front of the ring sold me all my postcards, and I wrote a couple while waiting for the ring to open. When the gates parted I found my seat easily, only about 5 rows up. The corrida didn’t begin till six, so I drank a couple of icy beers and a bottle of mineral water while I wrote more postcards.
The ceremony began with a parade, with the toreros proudly walking before the horses. This group, the cuadrilla, marches around the ring to festive band music, just like in the movies. Then the actual corrida begins. There were six different contests between man and beast. Each followed a pattern which varied little; the first match was typical (though each bull and each matador had his own personal peccadillos). The bull was released from the chute; he burst into the ring with a taurine fury that took me by surprise: I’d expected a fairly placid animal that would be gradually goaded into fighting. This huge black monster, speckled with white about the hindquarters, had only one thought in his massive head: to do as much damage as he could do to as many men as he could reach. The first matador was Martin Antequero, an exceedingly handsome young man who looked more like a Harvard sophomore than a haughty torero. Of all three matadors, he had the most stylized, balletic style. He addressed the bull with silken disdain, his pelvis thrust forward insolently. Considering the sheer massiveness of this particular beast, I was impressed with his willingness to put his cojones in such obvious danger. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before the first address of the bull, the animal chased all the men around the ring. It was odd to see them scrambling to hide behind the burladeros, the panels parallel to the sides of the ring which I had assumed were for emergencies. Not so: they ran like rabbits from the moment the bull appeared. The matador, to his credit, stayed mostly out in the open. After a bit of this cat and mouse business, the picador trotted out on a horse padded as extravagantly as a Wagnerian soprano — and with good reason. The horse, incidentally, is blindfolded. Any sensible horse without a blindfold would probably wrest the lance from his rider, pole vault over the edge of the ring, and head for the border. After the matador played the bull awhile, the bull inevitably charged the horse, attempting with all his might and main to penetrate the poor animal’s interior regions. During the bull’s attempt at exploratory surgery, the picador sends his lance into the bull’s shoulder to weaken him and cut his shoulder muscles, then it’s time for the banderilleros to attempt to place the banderillos. These men had the trickiest job: stabbing the barbed, satin-flounced sticks into the bull’s shoulders, two at a time. (Generally they did well, except for one man in a green suit. He was clearly terrified of the bull, advancing on him crabwise out of sheer naked fear. He was inept in placing the banderillos, and was frequently booed.) When the bull was thus weakened by the picador and banderilleros and losing blood fast, Antequero exchanged his magenta and yellow cape for a small scarlet one. With this cape he played the bull with shorter, more delicate strokes, then pulled out a sword and drove it as far as he could into the bull. The sword didn’t go in far enough to do much damage, so it was withdrawn and another attempt was made. When the bull, weakened from loss of blood, finally sank to its knees Antequero dispatched him with a dagger stuck into the base of the skull. All the contests but the last ended with this thrust of the dagger. After the bull is killed, three horsemen come out with a sort of yoke attached behind their mounts, and drag the fallen hero around the ring and out the gate. I’m told that the bulls are butchered and the meat given to the poor. I hope so.
The next matador was Curro Gea, who looked, from my vantage point, something like the weak-chinned matador in Ferdinand the Bull. He was skillful, but without a discernible style. A compact black bull hurtled out of the gate. First came the obligatory chase, then the picador’s work, but at this point the bull appeared to be disqualified. Six or seven brown and white bulls were let into the ring. Our little black bull made a few aggressive moves toward them, but eventually he trotted out with them and a new bull was introduced. The same process happened again, but on the third try, the bull was finally dispatched.
The third matador was Tomas Lopez, young and good-looking, in a blazing suit of lights in purple and gold. His style was excellent, very stylized and graceful. While knowing little of the sport, I observed carefully; I imagine that Lopez is a very promising torero. His bull was a brown, blunt beast, short-legged and ferocious enough to satisfy anyone. The kill went well and quickly, but again, the dagger was required to finish him off.
All three matadors took second bulls. Antequero was more elaborate and balletic than before, Gea markedly less effective than his first time out. During Gea’s contest, the green-suited banderillero was humiliatingly inept. It took three tries to place the banderillos and he was so clearly terrified that the crowd howled a storm of disapproval. By now I suppose the poor man is looking into the exciting world of flipping hamburgers, or some other non-aggressive form of beef.
The last bull of the day belonged to Lopez, whose performance was excellent. His last bull was a superb match for him, large, brown, a ton of muscle, gristle, and ferocity. This bull was very determined to stay alive. Lopez’s capework was brisk and efficient, but his first sword only went in about three inches and had to be withdrawn. This served only to madden the bull. On the second attempt, the sword went in up to the hilt. It must have punctured a lung; from the bull’s mouth spewed what seemed to be gallons of blood. It was the only clean kill of the afternoon, but it was also very disturbing to many in the stands. I heard one woman nearby plead, “Oh, please someone, kill it!” But the killing had already been accomplished; the bull snorted forth a final quart of gore and sank lifeless to the sand, to great cheers and general clamor. And it was all over.
I was curious before the corrida began as to what my attitude would be to the whole experience. Well, I wasn’t nauseated, and was quite impressed with it as spectacle. If I lived in Spain I might go to other corridas, but I doubt that I could become a true aficionado. I hated to see the blindfolded horses attacked by the bulls, though they appeared to be unhurt. Bulls must die, of course, or masses of people would not be streaming into Burger King and Ponderosa and Wendy’s. But toward the end I felt a pang of species disloyalty and wouldn’t have minded seeing one of the bulls’ tormentors punctured or tossed into the stands.
Back at the hotel I finished up my postcards and read the last pages of my Patricia Highsmith novel. The boys came in from the ballet starry-eyed, the final chords of Giselle ringing in their ears. We returned to La Barraca and had another fabulous paella. The waiter we’d had before beamed with pleasure at seeing Steve and me return with two more patrons in tow.

Monday, September 4
I awoke at 8:45. We had arranged to meet at 9:45 in the lobby. I raced to the Puerta del Sol, where I’d seen a Cambio with a good exchange rate. They weren’t open yet so I raced back to the hotel; Steve and David had gone for the rental car and would be returning at 9:45 sharp and I didn’t want them to have to wait. But in Plaza de San Luis a café beckoned: I hadn’t yet had a cup of chocolate. It was everything I’d hoped for: thick and dense, and so sweet I marvel that Spain isn’t a nation of diabetics.
The car was a green Peugeot with exactly enough room for our suitcases and no more. Shopping for large items would have to be sharply curtailed. I had no cash, so a return to the Puerta del Sol was imperative. Luckily Steve found a place to idle the car while I made my transaction and mailed the postcards.
We rode north out of Madrid, and I was dismayed to see how much of the wonderful city I’d missed, broad boulevards lined with smart shops, parks and palaces and a magnificent triumphal arch at the northern gate.
The countryside was both lovely and stark, and very mountainous. The nature of the landscape kept changing; there was even a stretch that reminded me of Quartz Mountain State Park, near my Oklahoma hometown. On the opposite side of the road stood a slim tower of a ruined castle, but we hurtled by so quickly I couldn’t shoot it. I didn’t know it then, but many castles still lay ahead.
Our goal was the Escorial Palace, Philip II’s monument to his power and glory — oh yes, and God’s. Philip was an utterly humorless king, alleged to have smiled only once in his life: it was reported to him that a batch of heretics had been burned to death. The palace was remarkable, a forbidding fortress brooding over a lovely town, San Lorenzo de Escorial. We walked into a bar for lunch. I ordered a bocadillo (sandwich) of ham and crusty bread, accompanied by a café solo (my old friend espresso). The bocadillo was so good I ordered another of omelet and chicken; it was heavenly. We walked through the leafy town to the palace, but it was closed on Monday, so we trudged back to the car and pressed on to Segovia.
Do you believe in love at first sight? We came down out of the mountains around a curve — and gasped with pleasure at the city before us. Segovia appears from this approach to be in a valley but it is not. Segovia is a spectacularly sited walled city, the first of three we visited. This lower end of town is fronted by the most impressive sight I saw in all of Spain: a magnificent Roman aquaduct. Taller than a five-story building, graceful as a line of birches, it’s a brilliant piece of engineering. This aquaduct has stood for almost 2000 years and was in use well into the nineteenth century. Now it remains as a grace note to an incomparably beautiful city.
We found our hotel easily. The three-star Infanta Isabel, recently redecorated, is neat and comfortable. It’s a dozen steps from the Plaza Mayor and as unlike the Monaco as it could be. Segovia’s main Plaza is a lovely open space ringed with locust trees so green and lush they looked freshly-washed. A lacy wrought-iron bandstand stands in the center of the square. From the northwest corner, a spun-sugar Gothic cathedral rises like a golden wedding cake in the sun.
I unpacked hurriedly and went out to get a few shots of the cathedral. When I picked the boys up a few minutes later, we walked back down toward the aquaduct. As it was Monday – and siesta time — the town was very quiet, only a few intrepid tourists about. David went up to an old church to enquire if we could visit, but it turned out to be a monastery and therefore off-limits unless we were willing to commit to vows of chastity. I for one was not. In a small square a statue of Juan Bravo stood halfway up a flight of steps, looking like the Angel of the Lord with a bit of Billy Budd thrown in for good measure.
At the bottom of the steep streets we came to the aquaduct. It was even more impressive approached on foot. When I’d finished shooting it from every flattering angle, Steve shouted down to us from the top: he’d found a flight of stone steps. We all joined him, Fred muttering about his heart. I couldn’t help but note that he looked damned healthy for a dying swan. At the top a comely young German with long hair offered to shoot me with the aquaduct as background. I fought down the impulse to ask him for further, more intimate favors but he was with a small group and soon moved off. Seeing the aquaduct from this angle I was filled with admiration for that great Roman achievement, the engineering genius which helped conquer Europe.
The great cathedral where Queen Isabella was crowned is ethereal and spacious, dreamlike in its amber dimness. The organ is an instrument of some note; David was eager to find out if there were any recitals scheduled, but was dourly informed that the organ was only played during divine services. How sad, I thought. Throughout Italy, churches are used for their musical capabilities at every opportunity, both sacred and secular. David inquired of several people if CDs were available, but nobody seemed to know or care.
The others required a rest but I still wanted to explore, so I set out on my own. We parted at a lovely little park with children playing under copper beeches. I wandered down a narrow winding street to the western end of the city. Segovia is shaped somewhat like a ship; if the aquaduct is the stern, the Alcazar is the prow. Its towers soar above the trees, a standard Disney-issue fairy-tale castle. We were to visit the following day, so I merely wandered through the ornamental gardens. By the entrance, two large chestnut trees were cacaphonous with clacking, metallic birdsounds – I hesitate to call this racket birdsong. I looked up to see a parliament of odd blackbirds, hundreds of them, larger than starlings but not quite crows. Their clatter finally drove me away. I walked over to an open space to my right, where the road winds back along the city wall. Below the city lies a valley thick with trees. The present drops away. I walked past the Alcazar entrance again to the other side. I leaned over and looked down, suddenly wide-eyed at the sheer drop to another deep valley. Far below lay a monastery, a church, a winding road. I turned back toward what I assumed to be the center of town. The road followed the city wall, and at times I seemed to be walking within the city, sometimes without. I stopped to look at a tangle of wildflowers growing by the side of the road: purple echinacea, tiny delicate poppies of an almost incandescent red, and banks and banks of foaming, frothy white flowers. They had an odd odor, not exactly unpleasant but a magnet for bees. (David told me later with disgust that I’d been admiring something called Russian vine, despised throughout Europe much as we do kudzu.).
There were several roads I could have taken. I didn’t have a map so I trusted to luck. The road kept dropping; eventually I hoped to arrive back at the aquaduct — and did. Consulting a map later, I saw that my walk had taken me halfway around the city walls. It was now early evening and people were starting to come out of hiding: old people, teenagers, children, groups of friends. The Spanish, I note, are much more sociable than Americans. They love to gather in small groups and eat and drink and talk. It’s an evening phenomenon very much like the Italian passeggiata. Americans would do well to emulate this, but our society is too fast, too breathless, and disinclined to support a custom from which there’s no financial gain to be made. Pity.
I strolled along enjoying the sweet evening air, the people in the broad boulevard, and along the way I found another CD shop, where I bought six more zarzuela recordings.
Back at the hotel we decided to go with the guidebook recommendation again: the Méson de Cándido is cited as a place no visitor should miss. We were seated upstairs in a room which suggested an alpine hunting lodge: rough wood, wonderfully romantic murals executed by a master artist -- and photos of visiting celebrities. Decorative elements grew organically from the room; nothing seemed to be placed by a decorator. Just outside the open window stood the aquaduct, palely lit against the velvet sky.
We ordered two bottles of rioja, Ribero del Duero, rich and red with a pronounced notes of cherry and spice. I started with little red peppers with bread and mushroom stuffing, then slices of roasted wild boar in a rich brown sauce. The boar was gamy but good, garnished with cherries and slices of baked apple. Dessert was a baked Alaska. It was as good, as decadent as anything I’ve ever eaten and I almost levitated with pleasure.
After coffee, we repaired to Steve’s hotel room for something that very quickly became a cherished custom throughout the rest of the trip: brandy and conversation before bedtime.

Tuesday, September 5
I woke up dreaming I’d been performing an equestrian act in a tattered little itinerant circus, with my old friend Marianne Cary.
On the previous afternoon walk I’d found a pastry shop across the street, filled with wondrous things. We had arranged to meet at ten; it was still early so I walked across. I ordered too much: four little ring-shaped pastries, gooey with ultra-sweet frosting. The bitter café solo was a necessary corrective to the excruciating sweetness. It was served by a dull-eyed slattern more concerned with talking to her boyfriend. This oaf sprawled bonelessly on his stool and dumped his paper trash on the floor, little caring that she would probably be the one to clean up.
Once together, our aim was to tour the Alcazar. To get in, we had to cross a narrow drawbridge over a moat, another heartcatching drop. The castle had everything it was supposed to have, but much of it was reproduction. A fire had run through many of the apartments in the mid 19th century. But in the chapel where Ferdinand and Isabella wed was an original alterpiece, blessedly undamaged, a lively work portraying Saint James (Santiago de Compostela) lopping off the heads of the infidel.
Lunch was in the dark and amber-lit Restaurante La Tasca, around the corner and down a crooked street from our hotel. To simplify matters we had the set menu, chicken noodle soup, wine, a celestial fried trout, easily boned. The flan for dessert was eggy and rich. An attractive Israeli family asked us to take pictures of them, and when we parted, I recommended they try the Méson de Cándido for dinner. We split up again and I arranged to meet David at 6:30. Returning to the boulevard down by the aquaduct I stopped at a coffee house for another thick chocolate. This one had orange syrup added — no real improvement on perfection. I found another CD shop and made another haul, then went back to read The American Scholar and a newspaper. I had luckily found The London Times at a kiosk in the Plaza Mayor.
Before meeting Steve and Fred, David and I scouted the area for restaurants. We settled on the Restaurante El Concepción on the Plaza Mayor, a most fortuitous choice. This, we all agreed at the end of the trip, was our finest evening; everything was magically right. We watched the perfect sapphire sky gradually turn to peacock, then purple. The cathedral, a mere twenty steps off to our right, was softly illuminated, a rich gold against the changing sky. A scrawny boy with a sure, expert touch played classical piano a few tables away. Any sour notes he might have played were easily absorbed by the chatter of the patrons and the cries of children happily playing in the square. He began with Scarlatti and Mozart, then worked up to Satie and Debussy. I’m passionate about turn-of-the-century French and Spanish music, so I ventured a request. Some Albeniz? No, he didn’t know any. Granados, surely? No. He brightened momentarily when I mentioned Turina, but could only play a few bars with confidence. No matter; we still enjoyed everything he played. Two old pusses closer to him seemed mildly offended that anyone would dare interrupt their gossip with mere music. Eventually they powdered their noses and trotted away.
The set menu here was exceptionally fine, with a number of choices. I had, along with the inevitable red rioja, a superb risotto nero: bright bits of cuttlefish glowing in the black inky rice. The main course was bonito on a bed of sautéed vegetables. Dessert was an unearthly treat: thyme ice cream — thyme! — floating in a confit of raspberries.
In the Spanish style, we lingered over our meal as long as we could. It seemed a shame to bring this carnival of sensual pleasures to a close but Fred was chilled so he went back to the hotel early, thus missing the postprandial brandy in my room. I went to bed drunk on the evening itself, not the wine, not the brandy, but Spain, seeping into my soul.

Wednesday, September 6
I hated to leave Segovia, but other undiscovered treasures lay ahead. A bank near the hotel gave me the best exchange rate to date. Breakfast was in the hotel, and superb. We piled into the Peugeot and drove straight back to San Lorenzo de Escorial to see the palace. I enjoyed touring through it, but I toured alone. We were quickly separated when I stopped to linger over the superior collection of paintings. Thinking that the others had gotten ahead of me, I accelerated my pace but at some point I must have passed them, for they were nowhere to be seen. I finally fetched up at the exit cooling my heels for the better part of an hour, trying to suppress the nagging feeling that they had finished and were combing the town looking for me. Finally they came walking across the vast courtyard in front of the cathedral, to my great relief.
Lunch was at an outdoor café, the Alaska. (Many bars and restaurants and small hotels throughout Spain have American place names.) I had a wonderful seafood soup and paella.
The next stop was the only sight on the trip I didn’t enjoy. The Valle de los Caídos, the Valley of the Fallen, lies a few miles outside San Lorenzo. An enormous cross sits high on a mountain peak, a memorial to those who died in the Spanish Civil War. (A cross seems to me a perverse symbol for Franco’s dictatorship.) Below it, burrowed 820 feet into the side of the mountain, is an enormous basilica built by captive Republican slave labor. It’s a prime example of fascist chic: the overt worship of power easily overwhelming its ecclesiastical elements. Franco himself is buried below the high altar, opposite the founder of the Falangists. I was relieved when we left this smug, vulgar display and drove back down the mountain towards Avila.
Avila’s Hotel de Jardin is just outside the city wall. True, the front courtyard and lobby are thick with luxuriant plant life, but on balance this mom-and-pop operation is less like a garden than a roach hotel. There was no point in seeking out another: we were only to stay one night. My room was large, neat and plain, but the tiny bath off it was rank with a pronounced smell of sewage. I resolved to spend as little time in there as possible.
We walked into the city through a massive gate and found the tourist office opposite the cathedral. A pleasant young woman gave us maps and advised us where to go outside the city walls for a magnificent view at night. Across the way was the cathedral, a fine example of the early Gothic style, and older than most of the other churches we visited. The light in the chancery was inviting, a soft orange glow, but one had to pay to get in and they were closing anyway. So we repaired to another sidewalk café and began another cherished (British) custom: gin and tonics in the late afternoon. I hadn’t drunk any sherry since I’d been in Spain, the country that produces it, so I blithely ordered a manzanilla, mouth watering in expectation. The barman dutifully brought me a cup of tea, Manzanilla brand. He seemed mildly offended that I wanted sherry instead of this fine libation, but admitted that they had no actual manzanilla. I gratefully accepted a glass of fino instead.
Off to the side of the city is a narrow park with high trees, where elderly couples sat enjoying the mild late afternoon. The park overlooks the terraced town below and the hills beyond. More of Avila is outside the city walls than within. We walked south along the walls and re-entered at the gate opposite the Church of Santa Teresa. Here the great Catholic mystic lived as a girl; the garden she played in is preserved. The church itself is a modest gem of the late baroque, but Teresa’s chapel off to the side was the attraction. It is small and dark and dimly lit with candlelight, but the altarpiece is surreal, a frenetic rococo fantasy. All of it, every inch, is richly gilded. I sat there for a few minutes drinking it all in, and after a clutch of worshippers left, I managed to take a couple of shots without flash. This would have been a hard sight to top so we didn’t try.
The Puerta del Carmen towered above the rest of the city walls. I suspect it’s a later addition. This gate is topped by a wild tangle of stork nests. To my disappointment, no birds were currently in residence; perhaps they were out delivering babies. Outside the walls the low sun against the battlements made for a good picture, and I experimented with shooting against the sun.
At the Café Felipe in the Plaza Mayor we stopped for another gin and tonic and discussed our options for dinner. We decided on the Hostaria Bracamonte, which we’d recently passed. The Bracamonte has an elegant interior, very high style, and the food reflected this. We ordered a bottle of the house red wine. I started with empanadillos with meat, savory little pies. When the fish proved unavailable, I ordered the escalope del dia, a fried filet of pork. For his starter, David had a langoustine soup which I won’t soon forget. By this time he was laughing at virtually anything I said and a mild witticism brought forth a soup-spewing guffaw, which spotted me liberally and brought the party back to sobriety.
After the meal, after nightfall, Fred went back to the hotel, thereby missing the loveliest, most ethereal sight of the entire trip. David, Steve and I hiked across the river to the Mirador de los Cuatro Postes, a Roman temple Christianized by a cross in the center. This, the girl at the local tourist board had told us, was the perfect vantage point from which to see the city at night. Ghostly Avila drowsed in the moonlight, its unbroken walls lit softly with hidden floodlights. The centuries melt away and we saw the city much as it was when it was built nine hundred years ago.

Thursday, September 7
On the road to Salamanca, we stopped briefly to give Fred a daylight view of the city from our moonlit observation point. Morning robbed the sight of much of its magic, for the sun was still low and an early morning haze lingered.
The landscape changed rapidly over the miles. A valley of boulders became a plain with short scrubby trees. About a dozen miles out of Avila we stopped at the little town of San Pedro del Arroyo for croissants and coffee. I ambled down the street to a bank, where a heartbreakingly handsome young teller gave me the best exchange rate yet. (For the rest of the trip I mostly went to banks to exchange money.) On the other side of San Pedro the harsh, stony landscape changed to flat hot fields of wheat and sunflowers. It was here on this pitiless and sun-parched plain, Fred informed us, that the armies of Wellington and Sir John Moore clashed with Napoleon’s marauding forces. As we approached Salamanca a black cut-out of a bull stood presiding over the fields in the distance. When we reached him, he stood taller than a billboard. No lettering, no detail, just the black figure of a bull. Fred says they’re found all over Spain and advertise a kind of sherry. The symbol of the bull is so well known that he needs nothing but his silhouette to make his point.
In Salamanca we found an underground carpark and began searching for a hotel. We had rooms reserved in Zamora, some thirty-odd miles to the north. David had made them in desperation, because an enormous arts festival in Salamanca had caused a run on rooms. After four or five tries we were successful: the Hotel Condal had fine rooms at reasonable rates and they even called our Zamora hotel to cancel. David and Steve insisted on having single rooms, but I was willing to double with Fred for the two nights here. Our room was modern and sparkling clean, in short, everything our Avila hotel hadn’t been.
After settling in, we walked a couple of blocks to the Plaza Mayor, a large baroque square humming with people. The square is considerably smaller than Piazza San Marco in Venice but it has much the same spirit. Technicians were setting up for the musical events and an air of excitement crackled through the noontime heat. The festival was beginning that day.
The Restaurante Dulcinea looked promising, but we weren’t allowed in until one o’clock. We killed time by walking through the busy marketplace near the great plaza. People who haven’t yet been to Spain would never guess how plentiful the seafood is, even here in the flat central plains of Castille. In this market I saw more teeming varieties of seafood than I’ve ever seen anywhere, at any time. The two crowded floors featured every kind of foodstuff: fruits and vegetables piled into colorful pyramids; vast banks of meat, including organs I had no wish to identify. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the carcass of a rhinoceros freshly butchered and displayed on a bed of ice, a parsley wreath around its ears.
The Dulcinea’s set menu was plentiful and good: paella as a starter, then stewed chicken, falling-off-the-bone tender. Afterward, while everyone else took a siesta, I explored the town. The Gran Via was almost deserted, but I walked its length in search of a newspaper in English and a place to read it over a drink. I ended up at the great Convent of San Esteban, an impressive edifice faced with gothic lace, and with a fine modern sculpture of St. Francis presiding over the front courtyard. A young man on a bicycle stopped, tossed a small camera at me and asked me to take his picture. I talked briefly with a brisk young Scotswoman with a mouthful of bad teeth. They looked like a display of French country cheeses -- a most unsettling sight. After a few pleasantries I moved on.
Leaving the great cathedral for a later visit, I walked down the Rua Mayor and found a coffee shop, all gleaming chrome and mirrors, filled with students reading and talking. I ordered a lemon ice tea from a lovely young Japanese girl and settled down with the London Times I’d found.
Back at the hotel I met the boys and told them I would meet them later. A laundromat around the corner was attended by a pretty blond girl who took my coins and proceeded to do everything for me, even providing the soap. I was directed to an area with comfortable chairs and sofa and a television, more like a living room than a public facility. I settled down and read my American Scholar and soon she told me it was done. Everything had been neatly folded, so I tipped her liberally, which I’m sure must be the custom.
We’d arranged to meet at one of the sidewalk cafés on the Plaza Mayor. David and I ran to two more CD shops I’d found, where I made another raid on their zarzuela section. Fred and Steve joined us and we went into the Cathedral of Salamanca. This was my favorite church on the trip, magnificent, and more welcoming than most. Its upper reaches are filled with light, pouring through a ring of windows just below the dome.
Afterward we parted again, to meet at 8:30 for dinner. I went into a small antique shop — and flirted outrageously with the handsome owner — then spent the rest of the time strolling through the city. Roving bands of folk musicians marched through the streets. Some were small brass bands with modern instruments, others played medieval instruments like shawms and tabors. Still others accompanied dancing troupes in folk costume. A couple of times I witnessed two instrumental groups accidentally meeting in the street, their contrasting musical styles blending into a comical cacophony. I also discovered by walking beyond Puerta Zamora that a bold modern city surrounds old Salamanca.
In my perambulations I had stumbled onto an attractive place to eat, The Valencia. It was tucked into a pocket off the street, a candle-lit outdoor grotto. Our plump young waiter advised me to have the gazpacho. It was creamy and pleasantly sour, probably made with yogurt. Savory fish croquettes came next. I ended with fig tart, unlike anything I’ve ever had before, and marvelous.
Fred again took a pass on the post-prandial concert in the Plaza Mayor. It was Indian music, which sounded even more exotic here in the middle of Castille. Brandy and bed.

Friday, September 8
We were told that except for eating places Salamanca would be closed on this great festival day. So I slept till ten. The evening before I’d established that the Internet Café would be open at eleven, so for 500 pesetas (about $2.70), I spent a pleasant hour on the web reading The New York Times, The Boston Globe, and the Times Book Review. By now I was developing a sharp appetite for some good hard news, specifically, on how the presidential campaign was progressing. It was a pleasant little taste of home.
In the Plaza Mayor, several music events were starting up. I stopped for an empanada de bonita. It wasn’t tuna, as I’d expected, but a smear of tomato sauce with chopped vegetables. It was good but not very filling, so in the Rua Mayor I went into a bar for a veal bocadillo on a hard roll and two short beers, then walked toward the river. The Rio Tormes runs sluggishly under a Roman bridge, my real destination. To my disappointment it was in the midst of renovation and therefore closed to all traffic, even pedestrian. Instead, I wandered along the embankment listening to birdsong and the lazy hum of insects. It was a very hot day and relentlessly sunny, with that ever-welcome, hard porcelain sky overhead. There was no humidity and the shade was comfortable. Salamanca isn’t the farthest south I’ve traveled, but it felt like it.
During my afternoon coffee I was serenaded by a scruffy trio, more interesting visually than aurally. They came into the café to play a guitar, lute and recorder and sing at the top of their voices. After a while, silence seemed more agreeable, so I bought a bottle of mineral water and went to the Plaza Colon. Sitting on a rough granite bench just below the statue of Columbus, who points dramatically west, I read my magazine under a pleasant chorus of birds high in the plane trees and dark firs that ring the square. In Spain I’d hoped to see more exotic birds, but these were mostly sparrows, those little gray citizens of the world who know no borders.
By now a museum I couldn’t get into earlier was open. Salamanca’s Museum of Art Nouveau and Art Deco is unique in my experience; the museum is in itself worth a visit to Salamanca. The central hall makes a stunning first impression. It’s topped by a stained glass ceiling supported by lacy art nouveau columns and depicts a jungle rife with flowers and birds. The museum is spacious and cool, and the galleries lead naturally from one to another. First I looked at the novelty porcelains, dime-store figurines — from all over the world — that I’d always taken for granted. Items one might overlook at a garage sale became fascinating in a museum context. The highlight of the first level was a display of art deco figures, females in exotic and balletic poses, from before the Great War up to the 1930s. I had always discounted such figures as kitsch. But seen en masse and softly lit in glass cases, they had a kind of distinction, and even looked suspiciously like high art.
Upstairs I found a tiny gallery of furniture, disappointing, for the art nouveau style achieves its highest expression in furniture. Half of the upper level was the gallery of dolls. I expected to find this boring but I was absorbed for the better part of an hour. True to the museum’s focus, these were all products of the years between the Yellow Nineties and the Dirty Thirties, from cheap throwaways to costly works of art for the daughters of privilege. Many of the costumes were created with the artistry normally lavished on the wardrobes of financiers’ mistresses. Careful observation provides insight into the female children of each period — how they were regarded by their elders, the expectations of them as girls and as women, and the relative values placed on girls and on boys. I was left with as many questions as answers. Why was such a wealth of detail lavished on a nun doll, from her elaborately made-up face to the meticulous workmanship of her garb? Why on earth would a doll manufacturer painstakingly dress a doll as a grieving widow, in black bombazine and netting, jet beads and black fur, with glassy tears coursing down her cheeks?
Most of the time I walked alone through this gallery. Or did I? The effect of being alone in a room with hundreds upon hundreds of lifelike dolls was almost sinister. It occurred to me that dolls are oddly comparable to clowns, those other figures one step removed from humanity — or even more disturbing, to ventriloquists’ dummies.
I met the boys in the hotel lobby and we wandered up and down the town looking for a restaurant. Unfortunately we settled on the Roma, a restaurant thoroughly unworthy of its noble name. It wasn’t a bad meal, merely an indifferent one. Our dining experience started badly when I looked over at Fred’s salad and saw movement — a tiny cockroach exploring the whorls of his lettuce. Fred merely flicked it onto the floor and remarked dryly, “When you’ve traveled in India...” I rather admired his sang-froid but it put me off my feed. I felt on firmer ground with dessert, vanilla ice cream.
Afterward we sat at a café table on the Plaza Mayor with a bottle of red wine and listened to a tiresome concert of Celtic music, which quickly bored me. Whether halfway through a bottle of rioja or stone cold sober, most Celtic music sounds to me like plodding variations on “The Irish Washerwoman” played in different keys.
Back in our hotel room, we had our brandy and cashews and discussed musical theatre. The topic turned inevitably to Sondheim, and Fred positively blossomed.

Saturday, September 9
After breakfast I sped over to another music shop and bought my final CD of the trip — twenty was the grand total. I can justify my extravagance by the price: the average CD cost me around $6.50. No banks were open in central Spain and next day was Sunday, so the hotel kindly cashed two of my checks at an excellent rate.
Getting out of the city was like running a maze, and was much more difficult than getting in. Steve was uncharacteristically intimidated by the hairpin turns and narrow lanes. A haze lay over the land as we sped back toward Avila. At a little town called Barraco, two sweet young muchachas served us cold beer and tapas: crisp bacon rinds, pickled herring, fried pieces of fish in a thick tomato sauce. We ended with ice cream sandwiches.
Halfway to Toledo the road wound through the valley between the Sierra de Gredos and the Sierra de Guadarrama. Several large lakes lie among the passes. We pulled over for a breather and I took some good shots. Soon after that we drove through miles and miles of forest, all umbrella pines. I thought fondly of Rome, though these pines were not so tall. We saw at least three ruined castles.
It was uncomfortably hot when we arrived in Toledo but our hotel, the Maria Cristina, more than made up for it. Our rooms overlooked a fine bullring, but we were told that no corridas were scheduled. The hotel stands a couple of blocks outside the city walls. Leaving Fred behind, we walked through a park and into the city, through the Puerta de Valmardón. The city is undergoing a considerable restoration of the walls; workmen were also laying a new road of old stone, and a dark charcoal gray dust rose all around us. Hurrying past this, we began a climb up a steep hill to the heart of the city. We were sweating and panting with exhaustion by the time we reached the center, the Plaza de San Vicente. The streets are narrow and twisted, virtually unchanged since the middle ages. We saw a bar ahead, not a mirage and more than welcome. We got seats at a table outside and went in to order tapas and beer. I had pickled herring and something I’d seen throughout our trip, ensaladilla rusa: Russian salad. It’s made of potatoes, peas, and carrots in light mayonnaise, and was quite good. Our large schooners of San Miguel were icy cold and we poured them down our throats. My head was spinning as we continued our climb, but I was glad we’d stopped for fluid replacement.
There are two museums in town we felt we couldn’t miss. The first, the Museum of Contemporary Art, has a modest if not terribly important collection. The building itself is a beauty, and the true attraction. It was formerly a private home, an old-fashioned city house with an open courtyard in the center. I had an instant desire to live in this wonderful building of spacious plain rooms in dark wood, white plastered walls, steps faced with Moorish tile.
We wandered through the town to the other end, to a small plaza dotted with spindly trees struggling to remain alive in the cruel heat. This looked out over the deep Tagus River valley far below. Toledo, like Segovia, is walled and dominates a high promontory. A broken Roman bridge spans half the river and rich villas are set among the green hills.
Next we toured the small El Greco Museum. The essence of the collection is a series of portraits of the twelve Disciples, all elongated and greyish and emaciated, like most of his work. (His models could clearly have used more fiber in their diet.) There were a handful of other portraits here, too, and a few paintings by El Greco’s contemporaries. I suppose they were included by way of contrast with The Master, but I found most of these works livelier than his dour, hollow-eyed saints. Still, one has to admire the painter’s originality and his strict adherence to his own unique vision. For better or worse, El Greco is inimitable.
Back in the real world, we tottered down another hill to a shop, blessedly air conditioned. It’s one of hundreds dealing in the metalwork known as Damascene, one of the city’s specialties, a kind of workmanship in which intricate gold and silver designs are worked against a black surface. After demonstrating the real work they produced, the proprietress, an Englishwoman, showed us samples of the cheap stamped stuff found in many of the souvenir shops.
Across from the shop was another green park overlooking the La Mancha countryside. I got an ice cream on a stick and — absolutely vital — mineral water. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at the Sinagoga del Tránsito. The friezes running around the top of the sanctuary were like lace spun from light. Attached to the museum was a museum of Sephardic Jewish culture, but they were on the point of closing so we gave it the old once-over-lightly treatment.
That night Steve didn’t feel like going back into the city; I’m sure he found the steep streets as daunting as I. Instead of going out and leaving him alone, we ate in the hotel restaurant. This turned out to be the best food of the trip, and best of all, we ate in air-conditioned luxury. The waiter recommended a local red wine, Gran Valdad. This was the first of our wines from La Mancha, light and dry and with a distinct undertone of fine brandy. And this exquisite bottle was the least expensive wine on the menu! David and I both began with the Fisherman’s Stew, which I would match against the finest bouillabaise in Marseilles. (David thoughtfully refrained from spewing me with it.) My main course was baked salmon with tiny clams and tender young vegetables. The champagne cream sauce served over these treasures was a culinary miracle. I admit I sopped up every drop of the excess with chunks of bread. If a dollop of this celestial sauce had landed on the floor, I blush to think what I might have done.
The conversation at dinner sparkled, till the end, when it turned sobering. The subject: amour. Poor Fred has given up any dream of ever finding love and saddest of all was his reason. He actually admitted that he didn’t want to share his things, his house, with anyone. I marked his words to hold in my mind as a warning.

Sunday, September 10
I had intended to wake early and walk around the circuit of the city’s walls before the heat became oppressive, but the exertions of the day before had taken a toll and I slept till ten. We’d agreed to meet for lunch at Plaza de San Vicente, so I spent the late morning exploring the interior of the town, hills and all. Plaza de Zocodover is a triangular square of shade trees and sidewalk cafes. It’s disfigured by the golden arches of a McDonald’s, which I scrupulously avoided, as I would in Boston, Kyoto, Venice or Gotebo. At a bar I had the classic Spanish breakfast, churros and chocolate. The latter was more like standard issue hot chocolate than the thick orgiastic syrup I’d expected, but it was still good. The churros, which look something like albino dog dumplings, tasted of the corn oil they’d been fried in. Dipped in the chocolate, however, they were divinely guilt-inducing.
I rambled about the town for a couple of hours (can one be said to ramble up a 45 degree incline?) then met my friends for lunch in Plaza de San Vicente. The Restaurante Palacio wasn’t terribly palatial, but it was filled with happy diners and the food was plentiful and cheap.
Next we toured Toledo Cathedral, one of the largest in Christendom. The Transparente is an altarpiece of figures in marble, bronze and jasper. Its saints and angels playing musical instruments appear to tumble out of the great dome in a cascade of baroque excess. Light pours onto the figures from an unseen skylight, and one almost expects the whole galloping mess to fall to the floor in a heap of arms, legs, and viols. It’s deliciously over-the-top and utterly unforgettable. The Sacristy is a treasurehouse of great paintings, notably El Greco’s The Disrobing of Christ. Centuries of silt, dust, and smoke have darkened these magnficent pieces to near-invisibility. Even the Goyas, the most recent paintings, could do with a good scouring.
The Hostal del Cardenal is a hotel-restaurant quartered in the former summer residence of Cardinal Lorenzana, just inside the city walls. This was our happiest setting for a meal — except for that perfect evening in Segovia. Here one dines in a garden. It was lovely to relax under the tall trees as the temperature dropped and speculate upon the availability of the waiter’s splendidly built assistant, thus cleverly combining two of my favorite deadly sins, idleness and lust. I started with a delicate, fragrant crayfish soup, and continued with partridge in casserole, another minefield of tiny bones but very much worth the effort. The wine was the first and only white we had on the trip, another from La Mancha. It tasted provocatively of sherry and must be made from the same grapes, or perhaps it’s aged in the same casks. Dessert was marzipan, another specialty of the city, and coffee. Brandy, courtesy of darling David, finished a near-perfect meal.
We walked back to the hotel through the park, enjoying the soft lights glimmering in the trees and listening to a strolling trio of musicians wailing plaintive songs from some unspecified eastern European country.

Monday, September 11
The breakfast buffet provided by the Maria Cristina was a banquet; I gorged without shame. We left Toledo in a roundabout way, driving halfway around to the other end of the city to see it from below. Our last sight of Toledo was the squat, foursquare Alcazar standing guard over the town.
We returned to Madrid by way of Aranjuez. This small city is the site of a royal summer palace built in the 18th century. We didn’t tour the palace, preferring to walk through its more inviting gardens and fountains instead. The gardens were the inspiration for Joaquin Rodrigo’s great guitar piece, the Concierto de Aranjuez. The fountains, liberally decorated with writhing cupids and dolphins, gods and goddesses, were spouting water in a display worthy of Versailles.
We stopped in the center of town and had tapas for lunch. I bolted my bocadillo and beer and left the boys, determined to buy a light and capacious shoulder bag to carry all my CDs and camera back in, but without success.
Madrid wasn’t very far. Somehow we sailed blithely past the right turnoff to get into the center of town. I realized this just as we flew past the bullring, Las Ventas. “Turn around,” I said, “We’re passing Madrid!” We got off the expressway and headed for what my instincts told me was the right direction. I wasn’t entirely certain, so after a while we stopped and I ran around to the trunk to retrieve my Madrid guide. As it turned out, we were headed straight for the Plaza de la Independencia, and I was able to bask in my newfound glory as a navigator.
Back at the Monaco, Steve and David dropped Fred and me, and went to return the car. Our gorgeous hot-eyed desk clerk was on duty. My new room was an improvement on the previous one, featuring more mirrors and open space, and charmingly, windows between the bath and the bedroom. I didn’t stay long but made a beeline for El Corte Ingles and immediately found the shoulder bag I wanted. We had agreed to meet for dinner an hour later, one more time at La Barraca. But I trotted off alone, for there was one more great sight I wanted to see before leaving Madrid.
The Parque del Retiro can be favorably compared to Central Park in its beauty and variety. Formerly a royal preserve, it’s now open to the public. I didn’t have time to do more than explore a corner of this green Elysium. Many of the Parque’s avenues are named for Spain’s former New World colonies. Starting from the Plaza de la Independencia, I wandered down to the Estanque, a lovely lake alive with waterfowl. A somewhat pompous monument to Alfonso XII overlooks it. The monument is a semicircular colonnade with a tall pedestal in the center, surmounted by an equestrian statue of this quite insignificant monarch. This was the time of evening when people emerge to socialize: lovers and musicians, old ladies and children, superannuated hippies and businessmen, all enjoying the passage of afternoon into evening.
I returned by way of the Prado to pay homage to the glowering statue of Goya outside the north entrance, then walked briskly back to the hotel just in time to meet up with the boys for our evening gin and tonic.
Our last meal at La Barraca went slightly off, but only at the end. We gorged -- yet again — on fabulous paella, washed down with another faultless rioja. We also took care to order the baked Alaska in advance, as the menu advised. A young couple sat down next to us halfway through our meal. As they were served a baked Alaska, wheeled out with great pomp and set alight, we looked on with gleeful anticipation of our own. When our time came, the restaurant couldn’t accommodate us. We had to assume the couple had been given ours so our tip was correspondingly smaller. We left with Fred fuming and spouting like a teakettle, indignant that we’d left a tip at all. But then, he’d been the only one to save room for dessert.
Back at the Monaco, our elevator got balky and I discovered that my mustard seed of claustrophobia had suddenly ballooned into a watermelon. After we escaped and I calmed down, we sadly said our goodbyes, for my flight in the morning was an early one. I was sorry the vacation was ending on a down note, but then, goodbyes are inevitable. Traveling with three friends had been a new experience, and a good one. The night was suffocatingly hot and the tiny fan mounted high on the wall barely stirred the air. I was still badly shaken from my ordeal in the elevator, and it took me a couple of hours to fall asleep. I was certain that this time I’d be plagued with jet lag when I returned. (I was wrong.)

Tuesday, September 12
My 6:30 wakeup call came five minutes after I dropped off — or so it seemed. But I wasn’t tired. Indeed, all day long I hummed with energy. I checked out quickly and walked up the Calle Barbiere to the Chueca Metro stop. The sky was still dark, and a hush lay over the city. My subway connections were made smoothly and I ended up at the airport a comfortable two hours early. I checked my bags and spent the last of my pesetas on a hearty breakfast and a bottle of good Spanish olive oil for Tom and Holly.
My KLM flight left Madrid exactly on schedule. The Northwest connection at the Amsterdam airport, however, was a sad succession of screwups. A taxi strike in the Netherlands made the aircraft personnel an hour late; then a hole was discovered in the baggage department and we had to wait for advice from some technician in California; worst of all, after the baggage hold had been okayed, some imbecile decided at the last minute not to fly. It took Northwest a full additional hour to remove her bags from the hold, during which time I thought of an exciting new place she could put them. I breathed a sigh of relief when we lifted off and left Amsterdam behind. It was good to be on my way home.

Rome and Lecce

2008-07-21T15:25:00.000-07:00

ROME
September 2007

The first thing I noticed about Rome when I stepped out of the train was the balmy weather. The pharmacy sign near my hotel showed a temperature of 73°, and for the rest of my sojourn in Rome, it never varied more than a few degrees. Even in Lecce, far to the south, the temperature only rose to the upper 80s, and then, only for a couple of days. I trundled my bag over the rough cobblestones to my hotel, luxuriating in the balmy air, relieved to be headed for my hotel after a full day’s travel. I was staying in a new neighborhood, the Esquiline hill, near the train station, so I could make an easy, unhurried getaway to Lecce three days later.
My hotel, the Auditorium di Mecenate, is on the fourth floor of an apartment building. The elevator was one of those wire cages beloved of small European hotels. The clerk, a smiling Indian with gleaming white teeth, asked when I would like breakfast and assured me that it would be brought to my room. This, five steps off the lobby, was small, Spartan but stylish, and impeccably clean.
Even though I hadn’t slept on the plane for more than a few fugitive moments, I set out with great gusto, delighted to be back in my favorite city. Dusk was gathering, and my first thought was of food.
I strolled into the city’s historical center, reacquainting myself with cherished sights and streets. The Fountain of Trevi was glutted with thousands of tourists, as usual, but they can never detract from its voluptuous grandeur. The Pantheon at dusk was at its most ethereal, wonderfully quiet in spite of the crowds. The vast bowl of its dome absorbs sound like a sponge. Piazza Navona, my favorite public square, was sprinkled with dozens of artists selling their wares -- none particularly skillful and most fairly ghastly. The great attraction, Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers, was the unhappy prisoner of scaffolding and orange plastic webbing, with only the foot of the River god Amazon easily visible. Disappointing, I thought, but at least it’s under repair rather than being neglected. Rome does take care of its treasures.
I found a restaurant with an interesting tourist menu, L’Arcara, and upon settling down, realized that I’d eaten there before, on two earlier visits. The walls and napery are all the same color, a soft salmon, creating a warm, womblike feeling. Dinner was gnocchi, Roman Style (an intense tomato sauce), veal medallions, and a salad of bitter greens.
Paris may be the most beautiful city in Europe, with Prague a close second, yet their glories are most fully appreciated in the daytime. But Rome at night! No city can hope to compete with its warmth and unearthly loveliness. The buildings, painted in shades of terracotta, pink, gold, cream and ochre, are bathed in soft yellow streetlight, intensifying and softening these colors. The basalt cobblestones, worn to a satin finish by the feet of millions, glow like jewels. Everything is touched with magic, and the thousands of years of history seem to hang like bats in the shadows. In these winding streets of the historical center, all is hushed, the noisy traffic of the nearby Via del Corso forgotten.
I made one last stop: to buy a pear gelato, tasting exactly like the flesh of the ripe fruit. (How do they manage to do this!?) Walking back to my hotel, I was stopped by a handsome young Italian in a car, looking for directions to Trastevere. I was amused to be giving directions to a native, and the fact that I was actually helpful pleased me all the way back to the hotel. I dropped into bed at ten, having been awake for 36 hours.

The next day was September 11. A block from my hotel is the Vittorio Emmanuele II Park, a wide, lovely space with a subway stop below. I spotted one of the most beautiful trees I’ve ever seen, a gnarled trunk topped with cascades of round green leaves hanging down like trumpet vine. Holding down the corner of the park is a huge ruin, the Porta Magica, the remnant of a former villa built by the Massimo family, part of its structure built onto an earlier ruin.
I bought my train tickets to Lecce, then walked down the Via del Corso to the Galleria Alberto Sordi, named for the beloved film star. (Imagine an American mall named for a star, say, the Humphrey Bogart Center.) Here I found a great, great bookstore, Feltrinelli, where I bought an Italian musical based on “Roman Holiday” and had lunch in the caffé. This turned out to be a shopping day, and I hit at least a dozen profumerie (scent shops) before I found a bottle of my favorite cologne, Acqua di Selva, which I’ve used since 1963. (The clerk was a dark, slight man with depthless black eyes and a warm smile, deeply attractive.) Later in the day I bought a small bronze goat, which means that I now have the beginnings of a collection, as I bought another in Dublin two years ago.
Once more in Piazza Navona, I decided to give the art a closer look. Perhaps my first impression had been at fault. The oil paintings were the worst, the watercolors only slightly better. The pernicious influence of Thomas Kinkaid seems to be starting to infect the Italians as well. The feeling I got while strolling among the stands was how much better I am than most of these, which didn’t really please me. I really wanted them to be better. One painter, a sloppy old woman from the pastry tube school of art, displayed work so bad that my heart was wrung with pity. The many portrait artists were better, though their work was generally so prettified and flattering as to be worthless. The caricaturists were the most skillful of all, though some were so mordant that in sitting for one, one’s self-esteem might well be permanently damaged.
To refresh my eye, I walked down along the antique shops and artisans of Via dei Coronari, then turned to the river. Walking along the Lungotevere under the towering plane trees I watched the traffic hurtle madly by, suddenly grateful to be on foot. I have never seen traffic madder, more frenetic; a careless jaywalker would be immediately slaughtered. I was getting a bit tired, so settled on a step of the Ponte Sant’Angelo to watch the students and young lovers it seems to attract. Eventually I got up and crossed the bridge, studying the ten angels along its length. These are the products of some of Bernini’s more gifted students, and perfectly embody the baroque style. They swirl with such a sense of frozen movement, of life itself, they might almost be intended as spirits of the dance.
Ahead was Castel Sant’Angelo, originally Hadrian’s tomb, one place in Rome I’d never managed to explore. It was too late to visit the museum inside, but a banner advertising a current show made me determined to return the next day. This was “The Triumph of Idiocy.” It was not a tribute to George W. Bush, but to the “prejudices, follies, and banality of the Europeans.” Three satirical artists of different periods were featured: Daumier, Georg Grosz, and Goya.

AN EVENING’S PLEASURE
My evening’s goal was Teatro Marcello, a large Roman ruin, part of which was now adapted into a building of apartments for the elderly, part still being excavated by archaeologists. I was to attend an opera concert that night. I took the long, but easier way, along the Tiber. The low sun filtering through the leaves of the plane trees gave the impression of walking along a curtain of nature’s lace, a swirl of yellow, green and fawn. Edward Thomas once wrote that “the past is the only dead thing that smells sweet” but the scent of the dead leaves was a rich, autumnal perfume. Along the water were tour boats and other pleasure craft, already draped in their winter coats, awaiting the crowds of spring.
I crossed the busy Lungotevere as the architecture got more interesting. An unidentified moorish palace, a gallery of shops dating back a couple of centuries, then at last the Museo Ebraico, glowing like burnished gold in the sun, just before it sank below the Janiculum hill.
Teatro Marcello was not easy to find from this direction. Walking through a series of alleyways I saw far below a pit with a stage and chairs arranged in rows. A voluptuous redhead was fiddling with a microphone, so I shouted down, “Dov’e l’entrata?” “Over there,” she replied in English, pointing. I trotted through a few more alleyways and finally found the ticket stand, then began to look for a place to eat. This was a little snack bar in the shadow of the Vittorio Emmanuele monument.
Before the concert I bought a vanilla gelato and settled down on a block of travertine marble to savor it in the soft Roman evening. Pure pleasure, but better was to come. The concert was by two New Zealand (!) sopranos, the bulk of the music by Puccini. I found a terrific seat in the center. The first out was Emma Fraser, still a student, but with a confident stage presence. She seemed very promising, despite somewhat uneasy top notes. The second singer was the girl I’d seen at the microphone, Anna Leese. The program quoted the London Times, describing her as “a star in the making.” I could immediately tell why. Her voice was richer, darker, of dramatic soprano quality. She also turned out to be a first-rate actress, which is rarer. Her first aria was from La Boheme. Her strapless gown and jewels seemed to drop away to reveal the rags of the young, doomed Mimi, as she acted the role as well as singing it perfectly. The two singers alternated for the rest of the program, which was so well-received that we got an encore, a duet from La Nozze di Figaro. This was also very coyly, cleverly acted.
Returning to the hotel, I took what I hoped would be a shortcut through the momuments. I knew it would be safe when I saw that Michelangelo’s magnificent Campidoglio was not deserted; Marcus Aurelius glowered down from his horse, reluctant to release his hold on the ancient city he once ruled. I found a passage to the Via dei Fori Imperiale. Descending the hill, I was brought almost to tears by the beauty of the sight. No one who hasn’t seen Rome at night can comprehend how gorgeous, how mysterious, it is. Rome’s fabled past is right there, so present one can almost hear the clink of armor, the murmur of Latin voices from the era of empire. The monuments -- Trajan’s column, Caesar’s forum, the temple of Antoninus and Faustina -- are dimly, artfully illuminated, with just enough left in shadow to fire the imagination. I lingered as long as I could, and very, very slowly walked up the Esquiline hill to my hotel.
An art gallery on Via Cavour was still open so I stopped. The show was a series of monumental photos of nude warriors, treated in a sort of pointillist, half polarized style. The handsome owner was very friendly, and I got the (perhaps wishful?) impression he might have even been more so if a long call hadn’t come in on his cell phone. They were on the point of closing, so I moved on.
This day I’d tried out a new theory of mine. By walking slowly, not rushing, and taking everything at a leisurely pace, one might keep from getting tired. It doesn’t work.

A PALIMPSEST OF TIME
Going into the morning subway to Castel Sant’Angelo a charming young Briton (who reminded me of my nephew Toby) gave me information on buying my ticket and changing lines. When I emerged from the Lepanto stop, it was still early so I walked along Via Cola di Rienzo, stopping for a caffé and browsing through a bookstore. (I love Italian book cover design, quite different from our own.) It was cool and cloudless, like every other day I spent in Rome, with a sky of dazzling sapphire blue.
Castel Sant’Angelo is a perfect metaphor for Rome, a palimpsest through which one can the great eras of the city and city-state, one age clearly merging into another. The shell is a medieval fort, built around the original Hadrian’s tomb. I got my ticket and walked around the circular path to the bookstore in back. The walls of the tomb are a mad, irrational jumble of boulders, smaller rough stones, and bits of marble embedded in concrete. This was originally faced with marble, and decorated with columns. Inside the building itself, one descends a flight of stairs, then up a long, winding tunnel leading to the upper floors. Funerary urns are set along at regular intervals, none of them, presumably, containing the ashes of Hadrian. At the top one crosses a dry moat, and emerges into a sunny courtyard, presided over by a huge stone angel. Just off this is the art gallery, the Sala di Apollo, as fascinating as any exhibit it might show. Gorgeous frescoes cover the walls and vaulted ceiling, a Renaissance artist’s update of the decorative Roman style one finds in the ruins of Pompeii. Arabesques and floral forms merge into animal forms, angels and gryphons and lions and hares mate and converge. You might think this style of decoration the true forerunner of surrealism. I spent far more time looking at these frescoes than at the exhibit.
But this was a feast, too. I began with the prints by Daumier, of bathers at the beach. Here the satire was gentle, poking fun at the varieties of the human body. I moved on to the prints and drawings of Georg Grosz, the expressionist whose bitter vision of Weimar Germany became even more scathing in the Nazi era, requiring his escape to America. Life in George Bush’s America makes one appreciate even more Grosz’s loathing of corruption. His social conscience was eternally on fire, and even his American work is mordant and unsparing.
Blackest of all were Goya’s prints showing the horrors of the Napoleonic wars, expressing the despair at the human condition at its most unsparing, its most unforgiving. His vision of humankind is almost terrifying. Here, too was a prefiguring of surrealism, anticipating the actual movement by a century.
Needing a sweet vision to cleanse my mental palate, I ascended to the parapets, possibly the best views of Rome. Below me, in dazzling sunlight, lay St. Peters basilica, and the dramatic bend in the Tiber where one enters Vatican City. There was a caffé here, so I got a bottled water and settled on a marble bench to enjoy the view. How could I have been so lucky with the weather? And why, on four previous visits to Rome, had I never entered this marvelous edifice?
The next level up contained the Farnese apartments, the luxurious quarters of Pope Paul III. What uncommon splendor he lived in, while lesser catholics lived in squalor and heartbreaking poverty. One salon was covered from floor to dome with grand Renaissance frescoes, presided over at one end by Hadrian, the other by the Archangel Michael, a most unlikely pairing.
In another salon was an exhibit celebrating the life of Guiseppe Giacosa, playwright and the librettist of three of Puccini’s operas, La Boheme, Tosca, and Madama Butterfly. Two more salons displayed original costumes, photos, letters, and sketches for sets and costumes.
And at last the rooftop, swimming in sunshine, surmounted by another colossal Archangel Michael, this time in bronze, and far more ferocious than his fresco counterpart.

ST. PETER’S
Off to the side of Piazza San Pietro I bought a fantastically delicious panino of cheese, eggplant and chicken cutlet on a sesame bun. Simple fare, but delectable paired with a bottle of much-needed water. I sat on a low balustrade surrounded by plump Italian matrons, a swarm of pigeons pooling around my feet, crooning as if to coax a few crumbs from me. It was bliss merely to sit. I’m a marathon walker, but even a Sherman tank needs to stop for gas once in a while. Not far away stood a large red-faced man with a daunting walrus mustache, great gobs of mayonnaise dripping from it. I had extra napkins and he chortled and grinned like Teddy Roosevelt when I gave him some.
There was a huge throng waiting to get into the basilica, because of security, of course, the bane of our troubled times. It moved surprisingly quickly. Ah, the huge interior: from the sublime (the undeniably great art) to the ridiculous (a line of gape-mouthed pilgrims queued up to rub the toes of a bronze Jesus, presumably for luck). The greatest masterpiece of all, Michelangelo’s Pietá, was so far away, and surrounded by glass, that it might as well have been in North Dakota -- but safe from madmen with hammers, I suppose.
Outside again, I headed for the Gianicolo, the vast park overlooking the city on the west side of the Tiber. Thinking I might find an entrance to it on its west side, I walked up Via Fornace, but could find no entrance. I returned to the bottom of the hill again, and tried the Viale di Mura Aurelie, but again with no luck. Always to my left as I toiled up the hill was the park, guarded by a high wall. It took a good 45 minutes to walk to the southern end before I found an entrance. This led to Piazza Garibaldi, his huge equestrian statue presiding over the city, even higher than the top of Castel Sant’Angelo. Again, magnificent views of a breathtaking city, making me wonder if Paris is really that much more beautiful by day. Young lovers were draped over the walls, children played among the busts lining the street, depicting heroes of the Risorgimento. From the high walls I could even see the Apennine mountains, blue-grey in the distance. This was a revelation, seeing Rome, for the first time, not just as my beloved city, but as a jewel in a larger setting.
Outside the Park was the Paolo fountain, commemorating Pope Paul V. From a gorgeous baroque edifice, water poured into a cool blue semicircle from the mouths of dragons. It’s far larger than the Trevi fountain, but more classically restrained in style.

BY TRAIN ACROSS ITALY
I slept for an unprecedented ten hours, and was wakened by a lovely young Russian woman with my breakfast. My train didn’t leave till noon, so I checked out and strolled the neighborhood, stopping to browse the bookstalls in Piazza Repubblica. Besides the vast banks of art books there were more porn DVDs than anything else. O tempora, o mores. At the Stazione Termini bookstore, a grand emporium, I bought a P.D. James mystery and a Herald Tribune. I returned to the hotel to read the latter (and pick up my bag), and the young Russian gave me a glass of juice. I was glad I’d left her a sizable tip on the dresser.
On the train I settled into my seat opposite a tall, friendly student with huge hazel eyes, and opened my book. We rolled out of town, through San Marcellino and on through wild, lovely countryside, the Tyrrhenian sea clearly visible for long stretches. At the hilly town of Caserta we stopped for over an hour -- there was a fire on the tracks up ahead. Finally lurching into action, we passed Benevento (it’s a good wind that blows nobody ill) and on through Bovina. Immediately after this we were out of the mountains and onto a long, flat plane for many miles thereafter. Cervaro, Foggia, Barletta, Bari, Ostuni, Brindisi, and finally, Lecce.
Francesca was waiting for me on the platform, a bright figure in pink, her welcoming smile a great jolt of energy to me. She told me that Toby was due to fly in on Sunday. We drove immediately to her parents’ house, where I’d enjoyed myself so thoroughly in February. I’d seen Giacomo and Angela only a couple of weeks before, but it was still a joyous reunion.
A hot meal prepared by Angela was waiting. She’s a very talented cook, able to whip up a feast with a minimum of fuss. Pasta (orrechietti, a favorite of the region) and shrimp with mixed vegetables, a local fish, fileted and baked to a sublime tenderness, a cold octopus salad and of course the local vino rosso.
After the meal, we took a passegiata, the evening stroll beloved of all Italians. Brenda, Giacomo and Angela’s scruffy little dog, pattered along merrily at our feet, delighted to explore the city too. Although it was now between eleven and midnight on a Thursday, the streets were thronged with people. Lecce is a university town, so most of these were students. We met Irene, Franci’s best friend, and her brother Stefano and after a brief chat, headed home and to bed.

MASSAFRA
In the morning Angela and Giacomo and I headed toward the coast to Massafra, a few miles northwest of Taranto. This was where Giacomo used to work, so we stopped at an old haunt of his for a fine lunch, which featured zuppa di ceci, a bold and satisfying chickpea soup, a wrap with prosciutto, mozzarella and tomato, and finishing with a fruit macedonia. This could be described as a fruit cocktail, but was as radically different from the American canned variety as one could hope, fresh local fruit tossed together into a celestial treat. In town, Giacomo had business with his cousin, a lawyer, so Angela and I set out alone.
Massafra’s most noteworthy feature is a deep ravine that bisects the town. Caves are carved into the sides; these were used in ages past as homes and hideaways, some even made into chapels. This ravine, which widens downward toward the sea, is crossed by an iron bridge, and less fortunately, is disfigured by new houses and apartment buildings. These are built right to the edge, and have damaged the caves to some extent. We met Giacomo’s brother Nunzio, and Nunzio’s brother-in-law Mino. Mino is a handsome man in his 70s who lived in America for a dozen years before returning to his hometown. His English is charming and expert, and he served as a translator for Teresa, a guide from the tourist office who joined us. With Angela as chauffeur, we set out for a highly entertaining tour of the town.
First stop was a crypt from the 13th century, a primitive chapel carved into the limestone from which the town rises. The remains of frescoes in the Byzantine style were amazingly well-preserved -- what was left of them. These beautifully stylized figures have managed to survive in spite of local indifference, neglect and outright vandalism. Some primitive people from an earlier age even dug out holes in a few places, in hopes that treasure was buried in the wall behind them. According to Mino, they will probably continue to deteriorate and will eventually be lost. He grew bitterly pessimistic on the subject of his fellow townsmen, whom he sees as selfish, lawless, and concerned only with doing better than their neighbors. His scorn extended to Italy itself, a country all too willing to let its treasures decay.
Further on, we descended into the canyon itself. Going down the rough limestone steps, I admired a pretty bush, one of hundreds of different flowering plants and trees in the ravine, bursting with roundish leaves and frilly lavender flowers. On these bushes grow capers. I tasted a bud; unprocessed, it is bitter and characterless. But the flowers had a faint suggestion of the familiar caper scent. We were going down to visit another chapel, carved into one of the caves. In the forecourt to the chapel was a fig tree bursting with ripe fruit. We pulled off several and ate them. These were a treat, soft and easily pulled apart, a treasury of seeds like tiny garnets within the tender, sugary flesh.
This chapel was a bit more ornate than the previous one, and someone had half-heartedly attempted to preserve a couple of the panels, but the attempt hurt more than helped.
At the bottom of another deep ravine a short drive away is a baroque church, the Chiesa di Madonna della Scala, carved out of the rock. One walks down over two hundred steps to reach it. The church isn’t particularly noteworthy, but in a crypt off to the side are even more elaborate frescoes than the ones we had seen. These are far better preserved.
Back in town, we parted from Nunzio, Mino and Teresa, and I was shown the local castle (every town in Salento appears to have one), with a small but good museum featuring the local wine and olive oil industry. We drove to pick up Giacomo at his cousin’s office, but they were not finished. Angela went out to the balcony for a cigarette, but the mosquitoes (and smoke) drove me inside. Other clients were waiting, and proved to be friendly and curious about me (they don’t receive many American visitors in this corner of Italy). One middle-aged lady had the fattest feet I have ever seen, like soft loaves of dough stuffed into tiny silver sandals, toes bursting out at the ends like piglets escaping under a fence. Her husband had the severe, sunburned beauty of the very old in this part of the world.
Giacomo’s business done, we repaired to a little bar around the corner, stopping to chat with an acquaintance of theirs, a young man named Michele. On the sexiness meter, he went right off the chart. After a beer and a snack, we were on our way to Taranto.
Taranto is the largest town in the region, a navy town. A wide, deep canal leads to a piscina where ships are berthed. Giacomo looked for a parking space while Angela and I strolled along the seawall. The evening air was cool and smelled of the sea. Lovers walked arm in arm; young sailors skylarked in small groups, laughing. After a gelato and a sit-down at a central piazza, we headed home. But there was one more surprise in a day full of them.
In Maduria we stopped at what I thought at first was a rock concert in the town square. Wrong. It featured regional music, with a few dancers, and was held in celebration of socialist unity. The dancers kept changing, but three girls never left the floor. All were lovely, but one was gorgeous, a thin wisp of dark girl with wild, gypsy hair and tireless feet. She twirled about to the primitive rhythm like the spirit of dance itself. Angela and Giacomo danced together, alive with the spirit of the music, unwilling for the evening to come to an end. The music sounded to my untrained ear like endless variations on the tarantella, played by a band consisting of guitars, tamborines, an accordion, recorder, and two instruments I couldn’t identify. We got cups of the local wine, rough and sweetish, and eventually drove home to a much-deserved rest.

CASARANO
In the morning, Angela, Giacomo, Francesca and I set out for Casarano, around thirty miles to the south of Lecce. First stop was an ancient church built in the middle of the fifth century, the Chiesa di Santa Maria delle Croce. Outside, it’s a construction of simple boxes. Inside, however, are jewels of paleo-Christian art, well-preserved frescoes on walls and ceilings. In the apse, the elaborate geometrical mosaics are unusual for their period, showing an attempt to depict three dimensions.
Outside, we met Antonella (a cousin, I think), a woman with olive skin and pale blue eyes dramatically ringed with dark lashes. At the tourist office I was given booklets and maps, and then we stopped at a caffé for iced coffee and a snack. Dominating a main street of the town is an ancient palazzo decorated by a line of carved stone brackets, decorated with depictions of the faces of the men the builder had slain.
We went to visit Antonella’s grandmother, an ancient beauty of 95, quite frail but intensely alive to everything going on. Her little courtyard garden off the kitchen was a pocket Eden, with pepper plants and flowers growing in rich profusion. I was encouraged to try one of the peppers; my mouth returned to normal some time later. Afterward, we met Antonella’s parents and brother, with his young son Eduardo, a four-year-old bursting with energy and charm. He desperately wanted to join us as we drove out of town.
We headed down the coast to the town of Torre San Gregorio, and ate at Ristorante da MiMi. I’m fairly certain that I’ve never eaten in a more beautiful spot. The outside terrace, covered with a canopy of cane, faces the Ionian sea. Tall trees on the terrace grow through the canopy. Bathers a short distance away frolic in water so blue as to defy belief, and the sky was utterly without clouds.
For a first course we had spaghetti with clams and mussels, swimming in a sauce of butter with a hint of cayenne. Next came a local fish, roasted with slices of lime, big enough to serve us all, the tender flesh falling off the bone. Everything was served with a local white wine. An unforgettable, golden afternoon.
After a while, we headed south, to Santa Maria Leuca, the southernmost point of the heel of Italy’s boot, then north along the coast toward Otranto. The sea here had become so blue as to aspire to purple. Here on the coast the vegetation becomes tropical, flowers pouring forth from every bush, palms (my favorite tree) in rich profusion. As the sun sank lower we reached Grotta Ciolo, a deep ravine leading down to the sea. Several swimmers were still here, far below, and the air was like wine. We continued up the coast to Castro, lorded over by another vast Aragonese castle. Salento is something of a crossroads of the Mediterranean, visited and sometimes conquered by the Spanish, Greeks, Phoenicians, and Turks, all leaving their cultural or architectural mark. Castles and fortifications, architectural details on later buildings, sometimes only the memory of a great tragedy remain. Otranto, for instance, was the site of a bloody massacre by the Turks, in which three hundred of the city’s population were beheaded. Their skulls are preserved as a monument in the cathedral.
Back home, I was presented with an incomparable gift: a five-liter can of the local olive oil, produced by one of Giacomo’s family connections in Casarano. Later I stopped by to see Nico and Mario, the friends next door whom I grew so fond of when I visited in February. A happy reunion.
Mario is a steady, stable figure, reserved and deeply attractive. He’s always reminded me of Richard Tucker the opera singer, but better looking. Nico is dark, olive-skinned and voluble, with jet black eyes and eyebrows. He speaks a fair amount of English, and speaks it better than he thinks. He’s also a tireless flirt, a great nipple-tweaker and earlobe tugger, which not everyone would find agreeable. I do. Mario has written a number of books and operates an antiquarian bookstore. Nico cooks (superbly) and cleans, and this seems to be a most effective partnership. It is, to all practical purposes, a happy marriage.

TOBY AT LAST
On the way to Bari to pick up Toby at the airport, we stopped at Monopoli, a beautiful town where I experienced a new taste: the fruit of the prickly pear. It was sweet and tender, with a bright orange color, but studded through with small, hard seeds. The sensation was something like eating an overripe persimmon peppered with birdshot. Afterward we strolled down along the seawall. Below, a man sat on a rock, carefully peeling and eating freshly caught sea urchins. Then after seeing a small, perfect castle, once the home of King Carlo V, we returned to the car and headed north.
Next stop was a gorgeous seaside town called Polignano a Mare, so popular a spot (and no wonder!) that we had trouble finding a place to park. Finally, on a little spit of land overlooking the beach we stopped for lunch. Angela had packed sandwiches and beer. The sky was cloudless as usual, and a soft breeze blew through our hair and I could gladly have stayed here for the rest of the day. We were joined by a couple, a very stylish blonde and her companion. Surprisingly, he turned out not to be a male model, as one might suppose from his looks, but a lawyer from Lecce.
There was a caffé a short walk away, so we went there for a sit-down, looking down on water that varied from bright turquoise to malachite green, astonishingly limpid and inviting.
In Bari, Toby’s plane turned out to be late (Alitalia, after all) so we dropped Giacomo and Angela off at IKEA, and Francesca showed me the city. This turned out to be the first Italian city I’ve seen totally without charm. It’s dirty, crime-ridden, and if it has attractions, I didn’t see them. Franci spent some time there as a student and hated every minute.
In all fairness, Bari’s airport isn’t bad. Eventually Toby’s plane came in, and we were all glad to see him, no one more than Francesca, of course. We drove home in great spirits, Toby had a shower, and we joined Mario and Nico for dinner, with flowing wine and a non-stop chatter in Italian -- and a little English.

GALATINA
In the morning, I went with Nico and Mario to Galatina, a small town some 20 miles away. Mario was seeing his publisher, Congedo Editore, and introduced me to his editor, Francesco. Mario thought he might be interested in my artwork, so I left my business card. As Nico and I departed to see the town, Francesco gave me one of his products, a beautiful color guide to Lecce.
The church of Santa Caterina dell’Alessandria was the finest, most fascinating church of all that I visited on this trip. Splendid frescoes from the 13th century -- in mint condition -- cover every wall and the ceiling, their style an agreeable bridge between the medieval and the Renaissance. They all seemed to be from the hand of the same artist (or his studio). If so I never learned his name.
Before returning to Lecce, we stopped at a vineyard, where Mario and Nico bought several jugs of the local wine, red and white. This was a very streamlined operation, with siphons coming out of the floor, leading to the vats below. In addition, there were bottles of finer wine for sale. We were poured samples. This seems a good place to inject a note on the wines of the region. The most widely available red is called primitivo. This is a stronger wine, more robust in flavor than one generally finds, though not without subtle qualities. It has, I later discovered in the classic way, a higher alcoholic content. All over Salento one finds olive trees, seemingly in the billions, but there are many vineyards, too, all producing splendid wines.
Back in Lecce, Angela had prepared lunch featuring a roast chicken, peppery and savory. Attending this feast were Angela and Giacomo, Mario and Nico, Franci and Toby, and me, and also Angela’s mother, Carmela. Afterward I climbed to the roof and read for an hour.
In the evening, Nico and I strolled through Lecce, passing through the public gardens. This is a magnificent formal park set about with wooden benches, beautifully tended trees and flowers, with a lacy gazebo in the middle. I knew I would return, and in fact did several times. As in so many parks throughout Italy, stone busts of Italian statesmen and writers lined the walks.
On the way to Mario and Nico’s antiquarian bookshop, we stopped to visit with Rosie, in the next shop over. She’s an Australian, married to a courtly Italian gentleman whose name escaped me. We had a nice long chat, and she revealed that she has a hunger for books in English, which are harder to find in this corner of Italy. So for the rest of my visit, whenever I finished one of the books I’d gotten for the trip, I brought it to her.
I visited with Rosie for at least an hour. She’s a great film buff, and we share a particular affection for “Sideways.” When we got to the bookshop, Mario gave me an autographed copy of a book he’d written, Lecce Fantastica, a compendium of anecdotes, esoterica, sketches and odd tales about the city.

SAN CATALDO
The next morning I had the only disagreeable experience of the entire trip, a visit to a bank. I wanted merely to cash a traveler’s check, and was kept waiting for a full fifty minutes as the dull donkey of a teller, phone in one hand, calculator in the other, called on at least three co-workers to get it right. I hadn’t thought to bring a book with me, so I could only fume and wait. The only entertainment I could eke out was to doodle caricatures of the other patrons on a scrap of paper. I fumed for an hour afterward. Subsequent check-cashing was done at another bank and never took longer than fifteen minutes.
I was swiftly put in a good mood by Nico. We drove the ten miles to San Cataldo, a seaside resort I’d glancingly seen on my previous visit. The sun, predictably, was out in full force, and a gentle breeze stirred the palms. We drove a mile or so past the main beach, parked the car among several others, and walked north for about ten minutes. Immediately we spotted friends of Nico, a middle-aged couple. Luca looked, apart from being stark naked, like a college professor, with pale hornrimmed glasses and studious air. (I learned later he’s an actor.) His wife Pia has flaming red hair (on her head, at any rate) and was thoroughly charming. We chatted for a minute or so and proceeded up the beach.
We settled down near a pile of driftwood. As we were undressing, along came another friend of Nico. Salvatore is young and slim and friendly, with fine dark eyes. He’s a student at the local university. Nico and Salvatore chose only to sunbathe. Just lying in the sun has always bored me intensely, so I plunged into the Adriatic (senza vestiti, of course). The water was perfect, neither cold nor warm, but cool and with occasional warm currents swirling through from time to time. On New England beaches I rarely venture out farther than my waist, as my imagination conjures up all sorts of sea creatures all too willing to drag me into the jaws of death. I always imagine that great white sharks are lurking near. Here, however, I felt no such qualms, and swam out a full fifty yards. Alone in the sea, rocked by the gentle waves, I swam for most of an hour, then joined Nico and Salvatore onshore.
I would never describe myself as a beach person, but I guess I am now. We stayed for a full five hours, and I could gratefully have stayed longer. As I was armed with an enormous tube of 45-protection sunblock -- and Nico to slather it on me -- I never came close to being burned. Having entertaining company fed my pleasure, of course, and it was liberating in the extreme to talk frankly about anything and everything. Sex, naturally, was the most common topic. My only problem was that a combination of sweat and sunblock kept my eyes stinging. Toward the end, Nico left us alone to go for a run. The low sun seemed hotter than at midday, so Salvatore and I found shade under an outcropping of straggly cedar, reeds, and beach debris.
When Nico returned, it was time to go. Walking slowly back to the car, we were joined by Luca and Pia, and I’m sorry that it was the last time I saw them. Like everyone I met in Italy (except for that bloody bank teller) I felt that warmth that could easily turn into friendship.

SON ET LUMIERE
That evening, Angela and I walked to the vast courtyard alongside the Church of Santa Croce for a light and sound show. Odd doesn’t begin to describe the experience. There was a constant musical undertow, a guitar and keyboard background. Only two performers were featured, a bald male singer who projected a dazzling sense self-importance, and an actress of hypnotic power. The singer sung in some unknown tongue, writhing and posturing fatuously, all but blowing kisses to himself. Neither Angela nor I could make sense of the language, which I think may have been Arabic. The music was unspeakably tedious, but luckily was interspersed with narration by the actress. I could understand many words but could not string them together to make any kind of sense. This woman was electrifying. She could have recited Good Night, Moon, the Gettysburg Address, or the lyrics to “Mairzy Doats ” in pig Latin and she would have held the audience in complete thrall. At the end, Angela told me that it had been a mythological tale, but that she was still unsure about what the music contributed. We stopped for some bottled water and walked home.
I have now known Angela for eight months, and we’ve only spent about three weeks together, but feel like I’ve known her always. There is something about her that would warm a stone statue. She and Giacomo, despite our difficulties in communicating, have clearly forged a firm bond.

DOLCE FAR NIENTE
In the morning, after some shopping in the historical center, I made my way to the newer part of Lecce, where there are many blocks of smart shops. I had lunch at a little tavola calda, ordering some mixed vegetables, a kind of meatloaf, and a bottle of beer. Partly through the meal I got the sinking feeling that the meat might have been horse, which is sometimes served in this part of the country. It did have a certain Alpo-like texture. The waitress assured me that it was not, but by now my appetite had flown so I left the remainder. By now the shops were closed (at 1 p.m.), so I strolled to the public gardens, an oasis of order and calm. At home I read my novel, had coffee with Giacomo, and in the evening was picked up by Toby and Francesca to go shopping at Ibercoop. This is a large, modern shopping center at the edge of town. We dropped Toby off for Aikido, then returned to have dinner with Giacomo, Angela, Nico and Mario. I had packed my bags earlier, and would spend the rest of my stay with Toby and Francesca. It was a lovely end to the day, with Toby eating a late dinner, and pleasant conversation. It was like being with my own kids.
The next day was spent much like this one, except for an explosion of music at the end...

CUTROFIANO
Angela and Giacomo and I drove for about 45 minutes to a small town farther south, Cutrofiano. There was a huge American-style pizzeria there, Jack ‘n Jill, with American beer advertisements all over the walls. One of them was for Sam Adams, brewed a few short blocks from my home in Boston, and I felt a twinge of homesickness. It didn’t last. The main attraction, however, was not the food. Seven musicians performed music of the Provincia da Lecce, and a livelier performance I have never enjoyed. The place was stuffed to the rafters with people, mostly university students, all utterly mesmerized by the music. Most people have a general idea of what a tarantella sounds like, and much of the music was in this driving, hypnotic style, or at least a variation of it. The musicians played non-stop for over an hour, and what little space remained on the floor was taken up by dancers. After a short break they continued. I felt like I was getting right into the bloodstream of Italy. Most American visitors see the great cities and the great art, and never get this far into the life of this surprising country. But here I was.

ANOTHER BEACH
Late in the morning, Francesca and walked to the Piazza del Duomo to meet her friend Nadia, a student at the university. She’s Tunisian, and was looking for an apartment in town. She’s a very pretty girl who dresses in western style, but she was unable to join us for coffee as she’s observing Ramadan.
Afterward I was dropped off at Nico and Mario’s. Their friend Angelo was there, making a cactus garden with different colored levels of sand. Nico had prepared lunch, tortellini in a sauce of butter and sage, simple but profoundly flavorful.
Nico, Angelo and I drove down the coast to Torre Inserraglio, a few miles north of Gallipoli, on the Ionian Sea (in the arch of the boot). This is, in summer, a gay beach, with a convenient pine forest nearby for dallying. Angelo went for a walk while Nico and I picked our way delicately over the rocks to the seaside. This is a beach without sand, only the deeply pitted karstic rock so prevalent in Puglia. We had to cross a field of these rocks, leaping agilely from stone to stone. It was like making a journey across a lunar landscape. There was no one about except a friendly older man, Francesco, who settled down near us. Eventually he donned flippers and goggles, and with a string bag, plunged into the water. In a few minutes he burst to the surface, shouting triumphantly and holding aloft an octopus he’d caught. For food, of course. In no time he had caught two more.
Francesco had declared the water to be bitingly cold, so I remained on my towel, soaking up rays. Nico, however, decided to take the plunge. He stood it for about ten minutes, then with teeth chatterering, emerged for me to rub him down. His skin was so cold I was grateful I hadn’t joined him.
Back on the road, Nico played American popular music on the CD player. He’s a huge fan, with a distinct preference for Sinatra. We all sang along, and although my memory for lyrics is spotty, “Lollipop” and Doris Day’s “Que Sera, Sera” came flooding back. We stopped for a beer and I was able to wash the salt off my hands at a fountain. Heading back in the dusk, we suddenly had a blowout. Nico and Angelo fixed it in about 12 minutes (it would have taken me even less time, as I would have called AAA) and we headed home.
At Giacomo and Angela’s I waited for Toby and Francesca, and then we walked to Trattoria Nonna Tetti, a favorite restaurant of theirs that I’d fallen in love with on my last visit. There was a wait, so we walked to “Road 66” (sic), a bar with an American roadhouse ambience. Toby and I had a beer and we returned to Nonna Tetti. It is becoming my custom to order the fantasia, the daily special, and this did not disappoint, being pasta with fresh seafood. Heavenly.

THE COASTAL ROUTE
I had a leisurely breakfast with Franci, and then was picked up by Angela and her mother Carmela for a drive down the coast. First stop was a peasant farmer’s market in San Cataldo. (It’s worth remarking here that in Italy ‘peasant’ is not a pejorative term as it is in America.) The fruit and vegetables on display were unbelievable: huge, ripe peaches the size of softballs, delicate little mandarin oranges, green and black olives in vats, and vegetables of every description. I bought a bag of mandarinos and Angela loaded up with tomatoes and peaches and a couple of loaves of bread.
We took the lovely coastal route southward, with Castro our ultimate goal, not for any particular reason, just as a point of reference. In fact, we never reached it. Paradise number one was the town of Melendugno, where I wisely bought a disposable camera. High over the sea stands the crumbling Torre del’Orso (bear tower, though there are no bears in Italy). Below them were bathers frolicking in the surf, in water of astonishing limpidity.
Lunch was an incredible pastry, a rustico, light and flaky and filled with molten mozzarella, bechamel sauce and tomato, the tomato sauce innocent of acidity. It couldn’t get better than this, I thought. I was wrong. The gelato afterward was a rich, fudgy chocolate laced with rum, the most intense I’ve ever eaten. I can now say that I have been to the mountaintop; I’ll never have gelato better than this. I tried hard not to faint from ecstasy, for the ladies could never have carried me back to the car by themselves.
Farther down the coast, but still in Melendugno, was Torre San Andrea. This smaller cove is dominated by another tower, this one honeycombed with tunnels, with bathers draped across the stones soaking up the sun. Every now and then someone would dive into the crystalline waters below. But for my clothing I would gladly have done the same.
Santa Casarea Terme is an ancient spa town. The baths are housed in a Moorish style castle, the Palazzo Sticchi. This proud queen of the sea is painted in pale pastels, in stark contrast to the intense colors of the sea below: deep navy blue to azure to turquoise. The sun sank lower, so we hurried on to paradise number two, Grotta Zinzusula.
This deep, cavernous grotto is a great gaping hole in the side of the land. We entered at sea level and climbed upward into the dark. Flocks of pigeons chortled softly on the rocks near the entrance, their cooing magnified by the echo of the cavern. A narrow path leads into the cavern, Dantesque and dimly lit. Although the path eventually came to an end, the cavern continues far below sea level. A guide was lecturing a group about the fauna of the cave. The sole sea dwellers here are blind albino shrimp whose diet consists solely of the guano dropped by the bats. M-m-m-m, yummy.
As it was late in the day, we decided to miss Castro, and turned back north, inland. Angela noticed a sign for La Cutura, a huge botanical garden, and turned in. This, paradise number three, was the highlight of a day filled with unforgettable sights.
Admission included a tour guide, and we walked through with a group of about twenty people. In the gardens I saw the tree that had so captivated me in Rome, and the guide identified it as a Japanese pagoda tree, sophora japonica. We were led from one type of garden to another. One section even had some wildlife: ducks, swan, geese, and somewhat incongruously, two fearless blue-eyed emus. They stalked along their pen beside us, as if curious as to what species we might be.
As darkness fell, the group diminished to about ten, and we were shown the cactus garden, with huge ghostly forms, some as tall as trees. An annex, a large greenhouse-type structure was arranged into several large rooms, each showing the cacti of a different country. Mexico and South Africa were represented, as was the American southwest. In the dim, bluish light the cacti seemed to assume shapes and character even more monstrous -- though of an unearthly beauty. Our dwindling party, now about six, walked back toward the entrance through dramatically lit trees as the soft night fell gently over our shoulders -- magical, ghostly, and profoundly peaceful. My inner child was simultaneously excited and soothed.
Back home, Angela, Toby and Franci and I had a magnificent meal together. I’m going to come home hopelessly spoiled.

AN ART TOUR
In the morning I took what I expected to be a short stroll through the town. I stopped at the first caffe I’d visited on my first trip to Lecce, and the same dazzling, black-eyed counterman was still there. There is no art museum in Lecce, but the churches are always reliable as displays of art. In the first there was only one really good painting, of a saint being slaughtered by two Saracens, a placid and wholly unrealistic look of pious contentment on his face. Most of the other art I saw was typical Roman catholic dreck, dark, muddy and executed by men of far greater piety than talent. Worst of all is the sculpture, various saints with rickety haloes studded with electric fairy lights, attended by vacuous putti (cherubs) with the wide-eyed stare of Barbie dolls -- if more fully figured. I had to reflect: Christianity, in particular the Catholic church, has given the world a treasury of great art, some of it sublime. But 95% of it, painting and sculpture at least, is overblown, maudlin garbage.
Touring the shops, I found one gallery devoted to the work of one artist, Sandro Greco. He has some small reputation, but to me he seemed merely a meretricious hack. Mere scribbles of paint on a panel were framed and displayed as if created by Monet. I didn’t see one piece that had a particle of value. The old lady in charge of the gallery was one of the faithful, however, and continued to hector me about the artist’s virtues. I tried to edge politely out of the shop. Finally I glanced at my watch, and with a look of mock horror, pretended I was missing an important appointment. I hurried out the door with relief.
Back at the apartment, Toby had returned home from work for the midday meal, but without Francesca. With confidence and unabashed brio he began to prepare lunch for me. I’d never seen my nephew cook before, and he set about it with an expertise that he must have absorbed from Holly’s DNA. Into a pot went a kind of pasta that I’d had before, a sort of thick noodle resembling dreadlocks. He tossed some cherry tomatoes, thinly sliced carrots and onions into a skillet of hot olive oil, and had soon created a lovely, bubbling sauce. “Michael, there should be some cheese in the refrigerator,” he said, and after he’d ladled the sauce over the pasta, I took the block in hand and started grating away while Toby put the pots into the sink.
“Toby, this cheese sure is grating oddly. It’s coming out in little pills, not flakes.”
He turned and his eyes widened. “Uh, Michael, that’s not cheese.” It turns out I was grating a bar of massage soap which has to be refrigerated to keep from liquifying -- which it was now doing into the pasta.
“Well, lunch is on me,” I sheepishly said. We walked a couple of blocks away to Il Ghiottone and lunched on risotto. I felt terrible for Toby. He’d created what surely must have been a culinary masterpiece, but then I guess I’ll never know.
That night the three of us walked through the city to the small, chic Ristorante dei Due Corti. They serve up specialties of the region prepared with flair, rich, spicy, and complex. This is truly haute cuisine at its best. The antipasti of vegetables, meats and cheeses were indescribable, thrillingly seasoned with capers, oil, and even a trace of mint. My main course was stuffed calamari, terrific but almost anticlimactic. Our leisurely passegiata home wended, not by accident, by a gelateria favored by Toby and Francesca.

PIZZA AND BEER, ITALIAN STYLE
The next night, we picked up Francesca’s best friend Irene (since childhood), and we drove to Gallipoli. This ancient town originated on a small knob of land sticking into the Ionian Sea, then expanded inland. Nobody in the car had a kind word to say about Gallipoli, but I liked it. A squat Castilian castle, bristling with cannon, guards the harbor. We parked and were joined by Irene’s boyfriend Vito. An architectural student in Rome, he’s short and dark and quite pleasant. There was a bit of rumbling about looking for an ATM, then we went into a restaurant recommended by Nico, D.O.C., the meaning of which I never found out. A menu board outside advertised “ostrich, Maryland style,” which I cannot envision by the wildest stretch of my imagination. Not even this exotic dish could bring in the customers, however; we were the only ones in the place. D.O.C. was expensive, with a bleak and overstyled decor in silver, red and black, and the waiter was anything but friendly. We left with little regret.
Vito called his mother, who recommended Vesuvio, on the way out of town. This was a much better choice. Even at 10 p.m., the place was full. Our handsome waiter was Albanian, and the restaurant hostess was noteworthy for her magnificent decolletage. Her breasts were straight out of science fiction: full bowls of gelatin jiggling so spectacularly that even I noticed them. We ordered two huge platters of antipasto, one seafood, the other a fabulous mound of grilled vegetables. Beer was the tipple of the evening, as we ordered the specialty of the house, pizza. Only one pizza was necessary. This prodigy among pizzas was the width of an ordinary one, but the length of an ironing board. It came at us in sections: margherita, melanzane, and sausage and chicory -- marvelous. Afterward I drew on the paper tablecloth, which has become something of a custom by now. We didn’t return to Lecce till 12:15.

INDIA, ITALIAN STYLE
The following evening, Giacomo and Angela and I went to a movie, Viaggio in India, which was more interesting than good: slow, tedious, but sometimes remarkably beautiful. I understood perhaps 2 percent of what was being said -- or going on. For instance, about 45 minutes into the film, the protagonist got on all fours and started pouring out his anguish to a bronze brahma bull, which made not a particle of sense. The final footage, which included shots of suttee on the banks of the Ganges, was at least visually arresting, and the corpses seemed to be real. Still, it was anything but a documentary, and pretentious as hell.
This was only my second time in an Italian cinema, which contrast interestingly to the ones in America. There is no brightly lit, hard-selling concession stand, only a few bags of chips on offer. Could this be still another reason Italians aren’t generally fat? Coming attractions are shown, but there are no flashy ads or admonishments or messages. Halfway through the film, the film stops abruptly for a five minute lights-up break.

ALBEROBELLO
I settle myself uneasily into my seat. To begin with, the seat belt doesn’t work. I grab hold of the strap over the door, and suddenly we’re off. The car hurtles through the streets of Lecce. We pass through a stop sign without so much as a pause, then another, and another. At last we’re on the open road and I heave a sigh of relief. Carmela and I are off to see the town of Alberobello. Carmela is Francesca’s grandmother, a stout woman of about seventy. Her eyesight’s bad, but somehow we stay on the road. And we had better, as we’re going over 80 m.p.h. Prayer suddenly seems like a logical idea.
Alberobello, a sizeable town, is noteworthy for being constructed largely of trulli. A trullo is a round peasant hut made of stones, tapering to a cone on top, usually surmounted by a smaller inverted cone, then a knob. The sides are generally whitewashed. This is a basic building unit, and a house may be constructed of several of these, from one, to six or more. The effect is something between a fairy tale castle and a gnome’s dwelling, and they must be seen to be believed. Trulli are native to this northern part of Salento and nowhere else.
We drove north toward Brindisi, and then hooked off toward the west. After about an hour we stopped to rest Carmela’s eyes. Every muscle in my body was tense: trying not to look terrified is damned energy-consuming. Soon we pressed on. We stopped at a filling-station cum caffé for coffee and a cornetto filled with Nutella, which brightened the day considerably.
The towns of Francia Martino and Locorotondo were lovely but we didn’t stop. Arriving in Alberobello, we had some difficulty parking as there was a religious festival in town, the feast of Saints Cosma and Damiano. In the 18th century cathedral, I admired the modern frescoes, primarily by two artists. These are beautifully stylized, an admirable compromise between the classic and the contemporary. Suddenly the church emptied.
Outside, the procession of the saints was beginning. The celebrants were lined up along the sides of the main street leading to the cathedral. Like salmon going upstream to spawn, Carmela and I pressed in the opposite direction, stopping occasionally to watch. Just like in the movies, two garishly colored statues of the saints were hoisted on the shoulders of the faithful and conveyed in great pomp toward the church, a brass band following. When we reached the bottom of the street the crowd started thinning out. Nearby was a parapet where I could see the town stretched out below, an endless fantasia of trulli, whitewashed and neat, under a startling blue sky.
We stalked about looking for a good place for lunch, Carmela rejecting each one in turn with a snort. Eventually we found a stand where I bought rolls, prosciutto and a rough native cheese. Carmela pulled me over to a caffé table and proceeded to make the sandwiches. Predictably, we were shooed off by the waiter, so we ate them standing under trees in the central square. I thought longingly of all the nice places we could have eaten, but what the hell, it was just food. And it was here.
On the way back to the car it was all uphill. Carmela puffed like a steam engine, so I gave her my arm and we toiled uphill together. For most of the day I had carried her capacious handbag -- which I suspect contained bricks -- so I was almost as exhausted as she when we got back to the car. She gave me a broad smile and once more we were off in a cloud of dust.
On the way back I appreciated the effort Carmela had gone through to show me this astonishing town. We stopped at least four times for her to rest -- once for a short nap. The first rest was in front of the gates of a lovely little villa outside Locorotondo, with extensive gardens in front. The chatelaine of the villa came out to see if anything was wrong, and Carmela assured her that she was just tired. The lady disappeared, and soon reappeared with coffee and two rolls stuffed with cheese and macerated tomatoes, a beautiful gesture of hospitality. The rest of the drive back was uneventful, a blessing considering the speed at which Carmela drives.
She let me off in front of Toby and Francesca’s -- alive. I resisted the urge to kiss the ground, remembering that the Leccese don’t always clean up after their dogs. As I came in, Toby was just leaving to give an English lesson. I flopped down on the sofa and fell into a short nap. It had been one hell of a day.
That night I treated all of my hosts to dinner at Trattoria Nonna Tetti, so unforgettable and joyous feast that I wish I could be sitting there still.

The next day, Angela came over with lunch, a heavenly fish dish with rice and peas and a tomato sauce. After she and Francesca left, I read Walt Whitman to Toby while he rested his eyes. Early in my visit, he had contracted a bad case of conjunctivitis, and it had gotten steadily worse. Today, the eye was no better so he stayed home from work.
That evening, my last, I went with Giacomo and Angela to a presentation across the street from their house. The program was in three parts, none of which seemed to have anything to do with the others, and all were a challenge to my Italian, a test I’m afraid I failed. The building is a former monastery, and the courtyard is one of the most ethereal, lovely spaces I’ve ever seen. It is surrounded by twenty-eight columns with a loggia behind. The columns in the creamy local stone were softly lit from below, with potted palms spaced about. The audience sits facing a high platform, and when we arrived the first part of the presentation was in progress.
We were given plastic cups and asked to crinkle them up, then attempt to tear them apart in strips, though to what purpose, I never learned. The second part was an interview with a very confident man that lasted for about an hour. The young woman interviewing him asked one question, and it was like flicking a switch; he began and simply ran on. When he came to a stop everyone leaned forward. It was like a merry-go-round grinding to a halt. Another question, and he was off again. Midway through, a pianist came on. I immediately brightened and sat up straight in anticipation of some music. The pianist sat and played -- three notes. There was more chatter, then four or five more notes, then more talk. This was maddening. Finally, he played a few bars of Mozart -- and stopped again. It was all quite frustrating, and made me realize anew how little Italian I know. The final talk was by a mathematics professor, sort of a “fun with math” talk.
Afterward I had pizza and beer with Giacomo and Angela at their favorite local spot, and then went home to the kids. Toby and Francesca are preparing a vast party for the 13th of October. I did some calligraphy for the envelopes, then went to pack my bag. Amazingly, I managed to cram everything into my bag. Had I added a couple of aspirin, it might have burst. It was almost a relief to acknowledge that I couldn’t possibly buy another thing.

ROME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN
In the morning Francesca went to the station to pick up Rachel and Gordon, Toby’s good friends from home. I had only two hours to enjoy their company and then it was time to leave. Toby was still in bed, so I said goodbye to him, with real regret. Franci drove me and my two-ton bag to Piazza Tancredi, where we picked up Angela, then drove the few short blocks to the railway station. Giacomo and Nico were already there. Suddenly I bitterly hated to leave. Francesca assured me I’d been no trouble. How very dear she is! Nico kissed me goodbye, promising to visit me in the U.S. Angela had disappeared, and returned with a panino, water, and a huge bar of chocolate. They saw me all the way to the waiting train and Giacomo lifted my bag aboard. Hospitality like theirs is rarer than rubies, and more valuable. We said our goodbyes and I was off.
How could I possibly express my gratitude, my jubilation at having made such wonderful friends in Lecce? Angela and Giacomo, Nico and Mario -- not only am I overjoyed at having them become a part of my life, but so deeply pleased that Toby, whom I look on as a son, has become such a happy, well-adjusted part of this world, this family. And of course Francesca has stolen my heart.
Arriving in Rome in the early evening, I did little more than check into my hotel, do a little window-shopping, and eat a fine dinner at Il Buco (a long-standing tradition). My room was bigger and better this time (same price) and I settled down for a long sleep, exhausted but utterly happy.
In the morning I bought my train ticket to the airport. As I didn’t leave until 6:00, I had the rest of the day for sight-seeing. After a short sojourn in the church of Santa Maria dei Angeli, I strolled across the Piazza della Repubblica to Palazzo Massimo, a superb Roman archaeological museum. There were a bevy of young students in front of me, and perhaps I was thought to be a teacher, for they let me in free.
There were the usual Roman portrait busts, which I have always found utterly absorbing in their lifelikeness. In their myriad details a true life is delineated. A statue of a Roman condottiere looked, with the addition of ten years and thirty pounds, remarkably like my cousin Doug. I passed through slowly. In one small gallery were three marvelous examples of Hellenic statuary. The one that delighted me most was the massive figure of a worn, weary Greek boxer; an exact replica of it sits in Roger Williams Park, a mere fifteen minute walk away from my house.
On the upper floors I found some of the greatest sights to be found in all Rome. In one dimly lit gallery were the frescoes from the Villa of Livia. This was a large, four-walled garden, with a delightful variety of trees and flowers, creeping vines and shrubs, birds flying and resting on branches, the entire work rendered with the utmost delicacy and accuracy. I cannot imagine how it was transported and installed in the museum. The rest of the frescoes were no less impressive, huge, complex, delicate. Some were nature scenes, some mythological scenes, others geometric fantasias. This museum is now my favorite in Rome, surpassing even the Capitoline.
There was a splendid gift shop in the museum, but I didn’t linger long. By now I was ravenous. My last meal in Rome was a tall beer and a heavenly Quattro Stagione pizza. I walked up the Via Veneto for my last gelato, a pistachio, the most expensive and least distinctive of the trip.
I am utterly without superstition, but as always, I chose to throw my coin into the Trevi fountain to assure a return to Rome. On the walk back up the Esquiline hill I bought a wallet, and returned to the hotel for my bag.

In the Rome airport, my bag was clearly far over the weight limit, but I wasn’t charged extra; a friendly smile and a pleasant word can accomplish wonders. I flew to Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport, where I had an eight-hour layover, too short a stay to find a hotel, too long to enjoy. I was surprised to find that after 11 p.m. this huge, bustling airport is deserted, the shops closed down. I found a Starbucks that stayed open all night, and settled down with my book, the collected stories of Roald Dahl. I can never sleep in airports, but eventually I set off to make an attempt at it. Trudging from one spot to another, looking for a chair, a table, anything to nap on at least kept from getting bored. Then a little past 3:00 -- bingo -- the place was suddenly buzzing with activity, people swarming about, shops opening with a bang,. Toward 4:00, I managed to find a recliner, a “comfort chair” in my departure terminal but by then I was almost afraid to drop off in fear of missing my plane. The flight back was relaxing, and I read the entire way. Back in Boston, I was greeted by Tom, and then drove home. A perfect trip. Yes, another one.

Roma '98

2008-07-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

ROMA 1998
“The days that make us happy make us wise.”

Wednesday, January 21

The trip to Rome came up like thunder, on a Tuesday morning: an announcement of availability on my E-Savers program, a cursory review of vacation time available, and the rapid decision. I called my travel angel Connie Norcross, who -- bless her -- found me a hotel in Rome in a matter of hours. So on a cold Wednesday afternoon, I left my office early, drove home, then took the T to the airport. Changing planes briefly in Philadelphia, we flew directly to Rome. One of the bonuses of a long flight is a generous allotment of reading time, so I settled down into my book, Terrible Honesty, which kept me quite happily entertained. Luckily the seat next to me was empty, so I was later able to stretch out -- for all the good that did me. I had brought along a single melatonin tablet and a sleep mask. As usual on a plane, I slept fitfully -- perhaps 2 hours. That always seems to be my limit. It must have been refreshing enough, for I was never to get anything like jet lag on the whole trip or after my return. I woke to a brilliant band of red stretching across the eastern sky, and looked down to see the French countryside dozing far below. The Alps were even more spectacular this time than on my previous trip. Five years ago, we flew further south; the mountains possessed a dreamlike quality, but here directly overhead, one felt their power rising into the sky. When we passed over Nice and Monte Carlo, a man from across the aisle joined me. His name is Richard deMeir; he’s a graphic designer from Los Angeles. His family was originally from Sardegna, which soon passed below us. He was friendly and pleasant, and gave me his e-mail address. He wants me to let him know how I spent my time in Rome, so I will. Lucky Richard has a cousin in Rome to visit.
We circled widely over Rome and environs, and once again I saw Ostia Antica below, a ghostly shell of city. Deplaning with a high heart and spring in my step, I raced along through the crowd, eager to get into the city, but suddenly found myself confronted with an impossible glut of people trying to get through customs. The process was maddening, and took a full fifty minutes.
I wasn’t quite sure how to get into Rome itself, but saw signs leading to the railroad. Neither of my guidebooks indicates that the train will get one into the city, but I was game, and armed with a mere handful of Italian words, made my way to the bigliateria. I was able to get a ticket, but found I had to wait for half an hour. Still, it was a new way to get into the city -- for me -- and the train went directly to Stazione Termini. The tracks went right by the impressive Porta Maggiore, and I could see my old hotel, a glimpse of an old friend.
The station itself was larger and more confusing than I remembered. I despaired of finding a ticket for the return to the airport, but put it out of my mind: Rome was just outside, beckoning me on to pleasure. I emerged into the bright sunlight, thrilling after the crepuscular gloom of the station, and dodging traffic, got through Piazza della Repubblica without being run down by one of the thousands of cars and Vespas, and barged down Via Nazionale, on the lookout for my hotel.
The Hotel Miami is on the fifth floor of a not-terribly-distinguished building, in a street of shops and bars. I took the elevator up to the lobby and was checked in by a tall, lugubrious clerk with saddish, thick black eyebrows, who possessed an impeccable command of English. I didn’t care for him: I bravely flung my Italian at him but he insisted on answering in English. He took me down to my room. It was very dimly lit and rather cramped, but I didn’t plan to spend much time there.
I unpacked my shoulder bag, just leaving in the basics, and immediately walked to Via del Corso. I had in mind several items I wanted to shop for, my primary objective being a CD set I’ve been wanting to find for ages. It’s Nino Rota’s opera, based on the Labiche farce The Italian Straw Hat, rendered into Italian as Il Cappello di Paglia di Firenze. It is absolutely unavailable in America; I know -- I’ve searched for it unsuccessfully for at least two years.
One of the record shops cited in my guidebook was on Via Frattina, but it was closed down, fronted with an iron gate, forbidden me by the lovely custom of siesta. I found I was getting rapidly hungry, so I settled down at a sidewalk table at Bar Frattina. With some difficulty I flagged down a very harried waiter, ordered a glass of wine and Spaghetti all’Amatriciana and amused myself with the basket of bread provided. After 20 minutes another waiter told me the pasta I wanted was gone, an announcement I felt he might have made somewhat earlier. So I left. I quickly found another little bar and had a caffe doppio and a panino of cheese and spinach. Delicious and more filling than I expected.
Finding myself at the Tiber, I walked north along it, looking at the water, which unfortunately possesses the most unsettling color of snot. I crossed at Ponte Regina Margherita, and discovered a wonderful new neighborhood. This was the farthest north I had come in Rome, but I had a goal in mind, Teatro Manzoni, where a production of Allegro Spirito, an adaptation of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit was playing. Since I had played the male lead in the early seventies, I hoped my familiarity with the original play might stand me in good stead. But for the moment, I had found Via Cola di Rienzo, a wide street lined with inviting shops.
My camera had been giving me fits, and refused to work. I decided the problem was my battery, so I stopped at a shop and replaced it, then walked north to Piazza Giovanni Mazzini. Next to another CD shop -- another unsuccessful shot at the Rota -- I found a parfumerie, where I was able to buy film from a lovely young woman. She directed me to Teatro Manzoni, right around the corner, where I bought a ticket for Friday night, fifth row, first seat on the center aisle.
Now that I had achieved one of my objectives, I walked back across the Tiber by way of Via Settembrini, then to Piazza dei Popoli. To my delight, I found it far grander than I’d remembered from my previous visit. Like the rest of Rome, the vast piazza was terrorized by the swarms of young people on Vespas. These tiny motorscooters are the bane of Rome, some say, and hardly an hour passed on my perambulations through the city that I didn’t curse the riders of these “wasps.” But I know full well that if I lived in Rome, I would have one too. After all, their sheer navigability is irresistible. And later in the day, indeed every day, as I found myself wincing with every fresh step, I strongly considered overpowering one of the riders of these machines and commandeering it for my own use. I spent that part of the afternoon prowling the Via del Corso, shopping for a shirt. The displays of clothing are dazzling. I found one, a sober dark brown shirt with a pale orange weave pattern. Further down the Via del Corso, I stopped at the shop where I’d bought Il Campiello del Paese on my previous trip for another try at the Rota CDs. A bored clerk, who seemed to know nothing about her stock, declared that she hadn’t heard about it. Just then, immediately behind her, I spotted it! It’s an old recording, conducted by the composer and long out of print, but it had been newly re-released -- and only that week! I consider finding these CDs a major triumph.
Back at the Hotel, I donned my new shirt, a perfect fit, making me look slim as a cigar. I was determined to find a Restaurant where I’d had a memorable meal last time, somewhere in the vicinity of Campo dei Fiori. I set out to find it, certain of success, but had absolutely no luck. I wandered the warren of tawnily lit streets, timelessly beautiful at night, but never found it. I didn’t know the name, which of course would have been a tremendous help. I found a place that might have been it, but I was by no means certain. I ended up facing the east bank of the Tiber, unsuccessful in my quest. I had gone in the wrong direction. So I got my bearings and headed toward Piazza Navona, thinking the restaurant might possibly have been there. Instead I found Ristorante Terra di Siena. It looked so inviting I went in.
I was shown to my table by a pretty young waitress, a young Anna Maria Alberghetti type, and ordered first, the Bresaola con Rughetta e Parmigiana, a salad of arugula, shaved parmesan on a bed of pancetta. My piato secondo was Papardelle al Sugo di Cinghiale, impossibly wide noodles in a reduced sauce of pork, tomatoes and hot pepper, exquisite, a fiery mouthful of flavor. With this I ordered what I‘d been looking forward to most of all, a quarter liter of soft red Tuscan wine.
It was latish, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get to bed a bit early. Still, I had energy to spare and the last thing I wanted to do was retire for the night. So on the way back to the hotel I walked into a bar on Via Magnanapoli, where I was served by a jawdroppingly handsome waiter with hypnotic, wolfish eyes and a killer smile. His face was made noteworthy, but not at all disfigured, by a pattern of pale scars, perhaps the result of a bustup on his Vespa. I ordered caffe hag (decaffinated) and a slice of cassatta alla Siciliana, which he assured me was perfezione -- and I was not disappointed. Then I walked reluctantly back to the hotel, forced myself to go to bed, and slept the sleep of the blessed.

Friday, January 23

I bounded out of bed at 8:00, breakfasted quickly, then strolled down Via Nazionale toward the Vittorio Emmanuele monument in the distance. It was a glorious day, mostly clear but for a few ragged scraps of cloud in the distance. Once more I began to have camera trouble, but discovered that if I simply popped the battery out and back in, it would fire once again. Still, it was troublesome and I longed to have my old reliable camera back, the one that I was relieved of by burglars in 1992. I walked around the monument, a long journey in itself, and went up Michelangelo’s slowly graduated ramp to the Capitoline Museum. First I stopped to appreciate the artist’s magnificent Campidoglio, and the elegant pattern of the piazza’s stonework.
I found the ticket office, and bought a ticket at the laughable rate of about three dollars. There were two buildings to see, and I chose first the hall featuring antique classical art. It was all magnificent, and I was especially impressed with the statue of the dying Gaul, a spectacular portrayal of male beauty, equally impressive from all sides. I clicked merrily away, but vaguely felt that my shots were possibly not coming off. It turned out I was right. I was impressed especially by the hall of heads, Roman portraits of such stunning individuality that their accuracy of portrayal is certain. As I came to the end of the exhibits in this building, I also came to the end of my roll, or rather, allotted number of exposures. Still the camera was behaving oddly. To finish up the roll past number 36, I kept shooting blank space, and the film advanced all the way to 54. So I knew it was a lost game. I finally managed to manually rewind it, inserted a new roll, which fed the way it was supposed to, and went across the piazza to the other building. In progress was a Matisse special exhibit. I went through the whole thing, but quickly. It didn’t seem quite right to spend time looking at the work of a French painter in this hall of classical art -- like going to Tokyo and ordering Paella alla Valenciana, which, by the way, I have done. More to my taste was the court in the middle of the building, featuring the huge head, hands and feet of Marcus Aurelius.
I couldn’t put it off another moment, my return to Trastevere. Wandering happily through the neighborhood I found it was still my favorite part of Rome. I threaded my way through the tiny vicoli of the area, and eventually ended up on Viale Trastevere. It was glutted with policemen, all looking quite ferocious and businesslike. Barricades lined the street and I soon found out why: a parade of Palestinians. At least I think they were Palestinians: many of them wore that black-patterned white rag that Yassir Arafat is never seen without. They were flanked, fore and aft, by battalions of police.
Part of what makes a return to a city rewarding is a return to well-beloved spots. On my previous visit, I’d found a fine art gallery featuring glass and ceramics, where I had visited with the owner, a charming, horsy woman who had impressed me with her friendliness. I never found it, sadly, but in the same area, there was a charming antique shop, where I discovered a lovely little olive oil container, made of copper and brass. Also in the same area was a tiny English bookshop, run by a starchy middle-aged Englishwoman. Two years before in Hong Kong I’d found a paperback I wanted, Lawrence Durrell’s Avignon Quintet. It is a full three inches thick and my bags were stuffed to bursting, so I reluctantly left it in Hong Kong, certain I could find it in America. In two years of searching I couldn’t find it, so I snapped it up now.
I walked by an inviting place, Ristorante Mario. The menu turistica was only L.17,000 (under $10), so I stopped for lunch. Spaghetti All’amatriciana, Pollo Fra Diavolo, some sort of steamed vegetable -- neither cauliflower nor broccoli but resembling both --, bread, wine, service included. Everything was fine, if not outstanding. The Pollo Fra Diavolo however was a surprise. Nothing diavolo about it, but it was falling-off-the-bone tender and sublimely tasty. Across the aisle from me, a man sat down. He looked exactly like the younger Vladimir Nabakov, except for a rabbity pair of front teeth. I said buon giorno, and he responded with a flood of friendly Italian. I have had this trouble before. My Italian accent is good but my grammar is elementary, my vocabulary not bad but not terribly supple. Many Italians hear the accent and assume that I can spin out a ribbon of speech with the smoothness of a Mastroianni. This man was typically Italian however in trying to draw me out. I had no time to prepare for this trip, so didn’t brush up on my Italian, and consequently found myself a bit more shy about trying. But he persisted, and I think he understood much of what I said.
Afterward, I found I needed lire and no exchanges were to be found in the area, so I sadly left Trastevere, across the Ponte Garibaldi. In Via dei Giubbonari I found an exchange, but since I was already growing supremely footsore, I didn’t return to Trastevere, but headed for Piazza Navona. I had no goal in mind, but just let the city’s spell enchant me all over again. Eventually I returned to the hotel and dressed for the theatre.
Luckily the nearest subway station was in Piazza del Repubbica. The train to the Lepanto stop was the one I wanted. It took me a bit of time to discover how to buy the ticket, but I wasn’t alone. Two charming Brazilian ladies were in the same boat. A tall Italian man finally took pity on us. I descended what seemed to be the better part of a mile into the bowels of Rome and a train arrived as I hit the bottom. It took less than ten minutes to get across the city and once again into the lovely night. The play opened at nine o’clock, which gave me plenty of time to find a restaurant. I needed it; there are few to be found in the area around Piazza Mazzini. But on the corner of the block where my theatre lay I found Gelateria Vanni. I really wanted to sit down, not just grab an admittedly delicious bite standing at a counter. Over the gelateria was a restaurant, but it was closed till eight, which would have meant a rushed meal. Though the kind offices of an extremely helpful and charming woman at Gelateria Vanni, I was shown to Ristorante Arcipelago.This place, like the gelateria, is part of a great conglomerate in the same building, including a bar and a tavola calda, similar to an American cafeteria. She had a few quick words with the headwaiter, who apparently let me sit down before they were officially open for dinner. I had walked myself to exhaustion by this time, so was grateful for the gesture. I had stumbled, it appeared, into another happy discovery.
The food was delightful, and the service hardly less so. Dinner started off with Fettucine al Salmone, a plateful of perfect pasta in a cream sauce bejewelled with bits of smoked salmon.This was accompanied by a quarter liter of white wine, and followed by Saltimbocca alla Romana, a bang! of flavor, and a reminder of my earlier trip to Rome. Thoroughly satiated, I nonetheless wanted to sit a while, and my play was at nine, so I walked around the neighborhood until I found a cafe on the point of closing. They generously let me in and I had a caffe doppio.
Teatro Manzoni is a new theatre on a tree-lined street, across from which are more of the enchanting little second-hand bookstalls found in richer profusion in Piazza della Repubblica. The auditorium itself, all red and white, is down a long stairway. I settled into my seat, a first-rate one. I was crushed that no programs were given out, not even for sale as they are in Britain, for I have an extensive collection of theatre programs from my decades of playgoing. Allegro Spirito was a joy nonetheless. Though physically the set gave one the impression we were in a suburban British household, as soon as the first actor came on, we were beyond all doubt in Italy. The maid Edith, played very broadly by a young actress named Annalisa Favetti, was a superior body comic, with frowsy blonde hair bursting forth from her pretty head like Independence Day fireworks. She set the comic tone beautifully. The Charles Condomine had been changed to Carlo Considine, played by Carlo Alighiero. Ruth, whom the translator had turned, oddly, into Muad -- certainly a mistake for Maud -- was a French actress, Martine Brochard. She was crisp, stylish, and no-nonsense, a perfect realization of the character. The Madame Arcati was Giovanna Rotellini, younger than the character is usually played, but a spherical delight -- extravagant gestures, overdone eye makeup, outlandish clothes -- just what one would expect of a self-dramatizing medium who turns out to be more effective than she suspected. Dr. and Mrs. Bradman usually come across as ciphers, but the actors here were memorable, especially the lady. She was an effervescent, kewpie-doll redhead and a lovely foil to her more sober husband. So far, so good. But at the end of Act 1, I got a nasty shock when Elvira arrived on stage. She was played by one Elena Cotta, a grandmotherly type a full 35 years too old for the part. Well, let’s be charitable: 30 years. Elvira is the ghost of a young wife, dead these many years. She should be young and bewitching, a sprite, a flirt, a will-o-the-wisp. One might more logically find the Elvira in this producation perched by the fire crocheting an afghan, a cat on her lap. This disastrous miscasting threw the whole play off. It was all the more upsetting because there were at least two actresses on stage who could have assayed the part more fittingly. I suspect theatre politics had much to do with this sad affair.
The audience was amused, but not nearly as much as I was. They laughed politely at all the jokes and farcical stage business, but the playing was fizzy enough to have evoked a better response than that. I laughed all the way through. Since I played Charles and the play itself is unforgettable, I knew I wouldn’t be too lost, even though my Italian was inadequate. There were very few full sentences I understood completely, but there wasn’t a moment in the whole play where I didn’t know what was going on. Aside from the badly cast Elvira, I loved every minute.
I took the train back to Piazza della Repubblica, with no difficulties this time, and went directly to bed.

Saturday, January 24

On my previous visit to Rome, I raced through the Vatican museums, simply to get to the Sistine Chapel. This time, I was determined to really get to know the collection. The only was to do it was to take it slowly, deliberately, and keep both eyes open. After breakfast, I took the train to the Ottaviano stop. I strolled up Via Ottaviano, looking in the tiny shops selling souvenirs of the Vatican. St. Peter’s Square from this angle looked larger than I’d remembered. They were taking down the huge Christmas tree from the middle, a major operation involving various pulleys and machines, and more people than were absolutely required.
There were no lines to get into the Vatican museums, probably due to Il Papa being in conference in Cuba this week with Castro. I went directly in, and without any real plan of attack, wandering the various rooms and galleries ad libitum. It is truly the finest collection of classical art I ever hope to see. Again, I was most impressed by a hall, long as a football field, featuring Roman sculpture, mostly portrait heads, which I can scan for hours on end.
The collection leads inevitably, certainly by design, to the Sistine Chapel. This time it was glutted by visitors, all maintaining a respectful silence. I took a more leisurely view this time, and kept making fresh discoveries. There are benches along the sides, which I hadn’t noticed previously, all taken up. I waited until a seat was free, which made viewing the ceiling, so far overhead, much more comfortable.
As I was leaving the museums, I discovered in the basement an undiscovered treasure, the Museo Etnologico, the Ethnological Museum. It was completely empty but for me and several guards. This, I decided, I could go through more quickly. It was a gorgeous place, though darker and more austerely modern, primitive and more sophisticated art displayed with dramatic lighting. One wandered through, viewing the treasures country by country, starting with China, and ending up with the Indians of North America. This part was the only disappointment, comprised as it was of numberless terra cotta heads of Indians in various headresses, also in terra cotta, dull stuff indeed. But by that time I was ready to go. I stopped briefly by the museum shop, and emerged into the beautiful daylight, a clear sky overhead. In all, I suppose I spent about three and a half hours in the Museums, a rich and satisfying visit. Though in truth, I could profitably have stayed for days.
The streets around the entrance to the Vatican are clustered with little eateries. Going down the long stairway of Via Tunisi, I found an ideal place for lunch, a pizzeria without that soulless, plasticky quality of its American counterpart, no cartoon characters, movie tie-ins, etc. I had a beer and what they call a pizza margherita, only crust, cheese and tomato -- real tomato pureed, not the dark, sour sauce that generally passes for tomato topping in your typical strip mall pizza palace. It was simple and delicious -- a very light crust that might have defied gravity altogether if the topping and cheese hadn’t been holding it down.
As was my custom, I walked down Viale Giulio Cesare till I found a gelateria, and had a gelato, Tiramisu this time, rich and sinful. Again at Via Ottaviano, I took the train to Flaminio stop, then walked through Piazza dei Popoli, dodging the damnable Vespas. It was time again for some serious shopping. On Via Vittorio, I found the world’s most beautiful tie, brown, with tulips in orange and gold and green. It was quite steepish, enough for me to hesitate. So I continued along this lovely section of Rome, this shoppers’ paradise. I did as many of the shops as I could fit in, then limped across Via del Corso toward Piazza Navona, muttering at the cobblestones, irregular enough to make walking painful. It became necessary to stop for a beer, primarily to enable me to sit at an outdoor café. The one I chose was directly across from the Fountain of the Four Rivers. It was bliss to sit by this time, and I sipped my beer as slowly as I dared. A short, squat man, hair pomaded to a shiny helmet, strolled back and forth in front of our tables singing gypsy songs to the accompaniment of his guitar -- charming if you looked elsewhere.
I had already seen much of the city; now I wanted to see the Pantheon again. Strangely enough, I think I was more impressed by it on this visit. It seemed less a shrine to Italian heroes -- Raphael, two kings -- than a splendidly preserved chunk of ancient Rome. And it is so vast.
I decided to go back and buy the tie I’d seen. I certainly would have regretted leaving something so beautiful behind. I went under Via del Corso this time, to a huge second hand bookstore which extends under the city, seemingly for blocks. I emerged to find a newsstand, and bought an International Herald Tribune. President Clinton, it seems, is thoroughly enmired in what can only be described as “Pussygate.” Well, if one lives by the sword...
I bought the tie and made my way back to the hotel, by way of Piazza del Repubblica, I bought two more CDs, collections of Italian popular songs from WWII. Then I dropped off my purchases at the hotel, rested very briefly, and went out to find dinner. I gave myself lots of time to slowly shop between the hotel and Via Veneto. After all, it was my last evening in Rome, and to return to Boston requiring a double amputation would have put rather a damper on the trip. Indeed, I would have been quite unable to walk quickly at this point. Just around the corner from my hotel, warmly glowing in the purple Roman night, was a shop selling tiles, ceramics for home and garden, glazed and plain earthenware. I walked in, and discovered another world. The shop was open to the sky; candles and little hidden lights were scattered all among the shop’s wares. I bought nothing, but perhaps I can return on another trip. Moving on to the Viale Bissolati, my eye was caught by the display in a haberdashery window, particularly another tie, orange with prancing gazelles. The owner was willing to take it from the mannequin’s throat, but it was ludicrously expensive, so I left it there.
Turning the corner of the Via Barberini I reached Via Vittorio Veneto, to give it its full name, a glittering boulevard lined with shops and outdoor cafés. Many of these, though still outside, are glassed in. I’ve never been to Paris, but this street must compare favorably to the Rue de la Paix. It’s surprising to find it’s only about three blocks long. At the end of the street, before entering the Villa Borghese, there is a small roundabout named for Federico Fellini, one of the higher gods in my personal pantheon. The neighborhood is a very integrated one, so I had no trouble searching it for the perfect restaurant. There are so many. I tried to get into Ristorante Marcello, which is very highly recommended by my Rome Access guide. Lots of other people thought so too; no tables were available until ten o’clock. A few doors down the street was another I had been considering, Ristorante Piccolo Mondo. There was no wait to get in, which eventually the quality explained. Not bad, just not memorable. I had the risotto nero, which I’d first tried and loved in Venice. It was again black as crankcase oil, but lacked that creaminess which indicates that the arborio rice has been properly boiled. But the flavor was full and rich, and went splendidly with my carafe of chianti. My piato secondo was several strips of veal in a rosy brown sauce, but some of the strips were tough and rubbery. The accompanying potatoes baked in oil and rosemary, however, were sublime. I finished with a crème brulée which ranks among the best desserts I’ve ever eaten. The custard was divinely creamy, and flavored delicately with an essence of orange; the crust was crunchy, dark and thrilling. I can’t be certain I wasn’t giving off little cries of pleasure. It was so good that I stopped at a table on the way out to recommend it to a couple I’d glimpsed during the meal. They were an older couple from Cleveland, and she had been thinking of getting the crème brulée anyway. My recommendation cinched it.
The Café de Paris around the corner on Via Veneto had a piano bar, which seemed to be the perfect end to my last evening, so thence I repaired. To my great disappointment, it was closed -- and on a Saturday night! -- so I headed back to the hotel to pack. On the lower dogleg of Via Veneto I found a great bookstore and stayed for the better part of an hour, barely able to tear myself away. The Italians must be great readers; there are fine bookstores all over the city, old ones, new ones, flyblown bookstalls by the parks, shimmering palaces off the Via del Corso. It’s times like these that I wish my Italian was more fluent.

Sunday, January 25

When I went down to breakfast, there was a new desk clerk on duty. I decided not to risk the madhouse of Stazione Termini, and perhaps fetch up late at the airport, so he ordered me a cab while I ate breakfast. Afterward, at the desk, I talked with a couple from Arizona who were enjoying the city as much as I, but for rather longer.
My driver to the airport was Ettore, a dark and charming guapo with black, black hair and a two-day beard. He was a bit gabbier than I would have preferred, since I wanted to see as much of Rome as I could, even as we whizzed through it. But Ettore himself turned out to be a compensation, quite friendly and nice looking, with a pleasantly husky voice that resonated a foot or so lower than my heart. He was, I suppose, what the world thinks a typical Italian man, and who’s to say he is not?
Ettore pointed out some of the sights I was unfamiliar with. He told me all about a building I’d noticed the day before, between the Via di Teatro di Marcello and the river. It is build on top of a skeleton of dilapidated ancient Roman wall, part of an early stadium. The later eighteenth century building is built right into its structure, and expanded in the twentieth century. It is used for elderly housing, which seems somehow fitting and beautiful. From there we crossed the Ponte Palatino and raced to the outskirts of Rome by way of Viale Trastevere.
On the long ride to the airport, Ettore complimented me on my Italian, but when I protested (it’s really quite elementary) he said that everything I said, if simple, was said correctly. My accent was good, “una lingua Romana in una bocca Toscana [A ROMAN TONGUE IN A TUSCAN MOUTH],” which I nonetheless must ascribe to the fact that Italians are generally accommodating and notoriously complimentary. Also, a better virtue, they are more forgiving of one’s errors with the language than other nations. (The French come immediately to mind.) He was quite impressed by the fact that I was a writer, and on arrival he asked for my address so he could write to me. It’s highly unlikely that he will, but what a nice surprise that would turn out to be.
On arrival, my processing was fast and efficient, but I was still glad I hadn’t taken the train. Now that the trip was really over, I just wanted to get on through. I went to the cambio and exchanged my lire back into dollars, which made me feel I really had left. Waiting for departure, I had one last gelato, this time a rich chocolate.
The flight back was largely uneventful, except for the worst turbulence I’ve ever experienced. By my calculations, this took place approximately over where the Titanic went down, a pretty thought.
In Philadelphia, customs went quickly and smoothly, I didn’t have to pay any duty, and was able to catch a flight one hour earlier than the one scheduled. However, there were weight problems with the plane which necessitated a return to the gate. The consequence was that we only left about ten minutes before the other plane. I sat next to a man from New Jersey who sat staring ahead without anything to do. I always wonder why people don’t read when they are in such a situation. Midway through the flight, we started talking. It turns out that Joe, a cousin to Jeff Foxworthy the comedian, is very much a great traveller, and a wine buff too. I told him about Klein Constantia, my favorite sauvignon blanc, and he was grateful for the advice.
I arrived home nice and early, took a taxi home, listened to one of my new CDs, and went to bed. It was a perfect trip, short but lively -- una vacanza piccola ma perfetta -- but still leaves me wanting more.

Prague

2008-07-21T15:22:00.000-07:00

PRAGUE 2002

Prague, October 16, 2002
On September 4th, I began a process that has put me into a charming flat in Prague, Czech Republic. The Harvard Housing Office provided me this contact for a house exchange; I’ll be here for the next three months. Nonie Valentine and Jan Jilek are two psychotherapists living in the center of this beautiful old-world city. I e-mailed them on the 4th and ten days later we decided to make the exchange official. We spent the next month in fairly constant contact, very effectively oiling the wheels of the exchange.
Last Monday I picked Nonie and Jan up at Logan and brought them to my place. We were instantly at ease, which came as no surprise after our extensive acquaintance via e-mail. Nonie (short for Norah) is a very attractive Connecticut Yankee in her mid-forties, with snapping dark eyes. Jan, a Czech, is tall and handsome, lines on his face indicating frequent smiles.
A couple of hours later my best friends Tom and Holly Bazarnick came by, met Nonie and Jan, and took me out to their house. I left the following morning via airport limo and flew to New York, where I had to catch a connecting flight to Amsterdam, then Prague.

I passed through customs swiftly and was greeted by Hanka, Nonie and Jan’s assistant. Hanka is long and lean, a student at one of the local universities. She is to be available to me for questions and/or problems and as liaison to Gaby, the housekeeper, who speaks no English. A limo whisked us into the city, and to the house by the river Vltava where I’ll be living till mid-January. It is at the end of a quiet beech-lined street featuring the John Lennon wall, a graffiti-splattered ongoing work of tribute to the rock legend. My nearest neighbor is the French embassy next door. The house is separated from Kampa Island by a narrow canal, and is entered via a courtyard strewn with leaves and mud from the recent floods.
Hanka let me in and showed me around. There is a gorgeous entryway filled with plants and a huge piece of African carved art on the wall. The kitchen/sitting room, with bath just off it, is the most inviting room in the house. Here is a desk where I'll be working at the computer when I'm connected.
The next room is a huge office/consulting room with vast bookshelves, framed art and some good pieces of sculpture. A sofa by the window is ideal for curling up with a book. This room is made a jungle by a profusion of potted plants, and in fact I'm tasked to water all the house plants which should be no problem.
The bedroom is also huge, with a large bed (that tilts up at one's pleasure). There's a TV here and shelves of videos, and it is in here that I'll be working on my needlepoint wall hanging. There are even two exercise machines in the unlikely event that I'll try to exercise beyond my regular bouts of marathon walking. Outside one set of windows is Kampa Island (separated from my building by a narrow canal) and out the other is the garden of the embassy. Lovely.
The house’s current name is Metychu z Cecova Palace. Jan heard the recent history from the mother of the owner. Before the war it belonged to a rich Jewish family who lived in the best flat. This woman was the family’s illegitimate daughter.
One wing of the palace was built around 1350, the other one about 1500; it’s been renovated repeatedly throughout its history. The entrance is Renaissance – from about 1500. A memorial plate on the front is to a Czech composer named Foerster who lived here. A writer named Jindriska Smetanova also lived here as a little girl, and wrote a short story, “Our Mr. Foerster Died.” It’s a minor classic of Czech literature. Her granddaughter, now an old lady, still lives in the house.
Hanka left me to unpack, shower and relax for a while, returning at 2:00 to give me a short walking tour of the city. We started by crossing the fabled Charles Bridge, a medieval structure decorated with blackened figures of saints and historical figures. Prague is like no other city in my experience. It has a magical, fairy-tale quality to it, expressed most markedly in the forest of spires thrusting heavenward. I kept exclaiming with pleasure at all the sights, to Hanka’s evident amusement. We hit most of the highlights within easy walking distance, then she left me at Tesco, a large grocery store.
I can read almost no Czech, so had to guess at most of what I was getting. On returning to the flat I preferred to eat out anyway. Within a couple of blocks I found a dark, atmospheric restaurant and settled down to really get to know a fragrant, succulent roast chicken.
During the next few days I toured the city, looking at the sights and glorying in the variety of restaurants. Good food can be found all over Prague at astonishingly low prices.

October 18
The most engaging aspect of Prague is the ready availability of music. The city could very well be the most musical in Europe; it was a special favorite of Mozart, whose Don Giovanni premiered at the Estates Theatre. I tried to get a ticket to a production of the opera in this very house the night before, but without success. I wasn’t too terribly disappointed as it will be repeated before I leave. While strolling through the courtyards of the Klementinum today, I stopped to look at one of the many handbills posted advertising concerts at the various churches and recital halls. These are invariably good, and gratifyingly low in price. A charming young man with a clipboard and ticket forms sold me a ticket for the Quartetto Telemann that night at the Hall of Mirrors of the Klementinum. I continued on to take photos of the city, as the sun had burst forth out of the grey clouds and was now gilding the city in a blaze of most welcome sunshine.
•••
The Hall of Mirrors is a chapel decorated by a rich profusion of murals in the baroque style, a perfect venue for chamber music. Such surroundings, I imagine, would bring out in a performer the ambition to succeed. I think it fair to say that the Quartetto Telemann rose to the occasion.
The quartet was composed of four young Czech men, cello, guitar, oboe or cor anglais, and flute or recorder. Their playing was expert, flawlessly performed with great sensitivity. All the items on the program were familiar, though the last three were surprising, suites from “My Fair Lady,” “West Side Story,” and Walt Disney’s “Snow White.” Who would imagine that “Some Day My Prince Will Come” can sound so piercingly sweet played by a chamber music ensemble?
In the afternoon I’d spent too long at the computer to eat before the concert. Around the corner from the music hall was the Café Pushkin, which I’d seen the previous day. This is a small lamplit place, glowing russet and pink, with a vaulted ceiling and only about five tables. One was available, but sitting nearby was a collection of young students far gone in drink. They gabbled on in what I assumed was Czech; later I realized it was drunken Cockney. Eventually they left, to the relief of everyone else. One of their party, farther gone than the rest, was a young man with shaven skull and ears protruding wildly from his skull like Kafka’s. He stood blinking owlishly, hardly realizing he’d been left behind, but stumbled out into the street a minute later.

October 20
Some dining experiences just take you aback. This morning I strolled over to the Globe Bookstore Café, a popular expat watering hole, to eat breakfast and get online. The omelet looked tempting; one was given the option of several fillings. I chose Swiss cheese and chili, assuming the latter would be the homey concoction beloved from my southwestern childhood. Wrong. I almost leaped out of my chair as the first bite seared my mouth like a flamethrower. No chili con carne, just bits of red pepper, which surely must have been habañeras. I picked out all the bits I could, but its fieriness was undiminished. The hash browns were a revelation: light and feathery and seemingly almost fat-free.
For dinner that night I wanted something special, as prelude to the opera. (The day before I’d gotten a ticket for Smetana’s “The Bartered Bride” at the National Theatre.) The day was a splendid one, with the sun mostly out and shining warmly. Eventually I found a place that looked promising: the Restaurace Skorepka. It is dark and seemingly authentic inside, clearly not aimed at the tourist trade. The menu was extensive and in four languages, however, the English translations were often comically askew. I ordered the smoked pork knee, the lead item, and a glass of local red wine.
I don’t think I’ve fainted since the time I was hit while riding my bike as a kid, but I came close to doing so again when the waitress returned. She presented me with what looked like an oak tree stump glistening with fat, accompanied by a plate of two kinds of cabbage, a pool of mustard and another of horseradish. The stump rested on a small wooden board. I was certain it would shoot off the board and onto the floor the first time I stuck my knife into it, but that didn’t happen. Surprisingly, underneath the fatty skin it was tender and lean, and was even improved by liberal applications of brown Bohemian mustard. Instead of ordering a dessert I got another glass of wine instead. After the waitress had removed my dinner I noticed that some large pretzels were hung on a rack in the middle of the table. To finish up my wine I bit into one. It was tasteless and utterly horrible and I think might have been simply décor. I furtively thrust the remains under a napkin, paid my bill, and sauntered down the street.
The evening was almost too gorgeous to spend inside. The sky was a thrilling peacock’s-throat turquoise, that color you see only on cloudless evenings – and then, for only a few minutes. By the time I got to the theatre it had darkened to a rich royal blue.
The National Theatre is a palace of gilt gingerbread, and surprisingly compact – only 13 rows of seats. Three tiers of balcony rise steeply above the main floor, however, assuring everyone in the house of a good seat. Mine was on the seventh row, only slightly off center.
I’d never seen a production of “The Bartered Bride” before. It was familiar to me only through the popular overture and a suite of dances. It’s a very lilting, melodic score; even some of the sung sections retain this dancelike quality. The music alone keeps this opera on the boards of the world’s opera houses, as the libretto, like that of 99 percent of the operas ever written, is purest piffle. First the singer sings something, then repeats it, sets off in a different direction, then sings it again. This was a superb production with good singers. The romantic leads were just what they seemed to be, attractive young people who were clearly in love.
After curtain I headed toward home over the Legii Bridge, my only company an occasional tram trundling quietly alongside. The mild day had turned quite cold, which I should expect more of, and very quickly.

October 22
The day started off cloudy but not cold. Just before lunch I struck out over the Charles Bridge and began wandering toward Old Town Square. An art gallery drew me in. The Miloslava Kumbarova Gallery is showing new drawings by a modern fantasist, Oldrich Kulhanek. I hadn’t realized that I’d already been collecting his work: he designed the figures on all the new Czech banknotes. The proprietor encouraged me to return at six for the official opening. Emerging from the gallery I smiled at the welcome return of the sun.
My stroll through the city resulted in a couple of happy discoveries. Ariana, an Afghan restaurant, looks (and smells) richly inviting; besides, I’ve never had Afghan food. The Anagram Bookstore, in an intimate courtyard behind the church of Our Lady of Tyn, will be a good source for books in English when my supply runs out. Late in the afternoon I settled on a bench in the Old Town Square and marveled at this incredible city. Everyone who visits eventually describes it as magical. In the middle ages it was considered a center for magic and alchemy. There is an almost palpable fairy tale quality to the very buildings. Ornament blossoms everywhere and even the pavements are set out in geometric designs.
•••
The gallery was already full to bursting. Kulhanek himself, a rotund gnome of 62 with a white mustache en style de Woodstock framing his mouth. Presently the room went quiet and a tall studious man in a tuxedo began a long laborious address in Czech, of which I understood not a word. Eventually he tired of talking and I went over to introduce myself to the artist. He was friendly and spoke perfect English. I bought a small etching, of the biblical story of Susanna and the elders. The young woman, as modest as her nudity will permit, sits in the center, surrounded by the lascivious faces of the elders -- and playfully tweaks the nose of one of her lustful tormenters. I also bought a book, a retrospective of his work. His work is completely representational, though with a strong surrealist element and a degree of political playfulness which got him in hot water with the communist authorities, resulting in his arrest by the KGB.
Afterward I went upstairs to the wine and cheese reception on a darkened balcony overlooking a friendly courtyard. I met a woman who speaks English, Kveta Gelnerova, who invited me to her office when I’m in the neighborhood. There’s a display there of some of Kulhanek’s “funny money,” lampooning his designs for the official banknotes.
I returned home and with the sky still clear and retaining a hint of dark blue, grabbed my camera to photograph the castle illuminated against the velvet night.

October 24
Today began sunny and gorgeous so I struck out for breakfast at Bakeshop Praha, in another attempt to meet Nonie’s friend Anne. No luck – but an assistant came out to tell me that she’d be there at noon.
On Parizska, one of the prettiest streets in the Jewish quarter, I found a friendly CD shop and bought two discs: a Czech musical called “The Pirates of Fortunia” and an English collection of New York songs. (The latter includes Gordon Jenkins’s “Manhattan Tower,” an unabashedly romantic valentine to the city. I’ve only got it on an elderly cassette.) Afterward I strolled along Parizska, watching the autumn leaves drift down, still in thrall to the city’s old world charm.
On my return to Bakeshop Praha, Anne was there, along with an extra bonus, Nonie’s friend Jennifer. Anne, friendly and brisk, is a slender woman with a pixie cut and half glasses. Jennifer is heavy-set and blonde, bubbly and vivacious as I’ve found so many British women to be. I got Anne’s phone number and will be calling her later.
After a bit of gift shopping I came home at a brisk trot: it was beginning to rain.

October 25
In the morning I finished reading Word Freak, the quirky book on championship Scrabble players by Stefan Fatsis; then began the first of the fiction I brought along with me, Isak Dinesen’s Seven Gothic Tales. I intend to read nothing but continental literature during my sojourn in Europe, in fiction anyway.
One of the Americans I want to meet is Nonie’s friend Roy Breimon, an artist resident in Prague for the last seven years. I reached him by phone a couple of nights before and we arranged to meet tonight. On the phone he’s somewhat abrupt, impatient with a visitor’s unfamiliarity with the city, but not unfriendly. He gave me his address, an apartment in a far part of town.
I was due to meet Roy at seven. As yet, I’m intimidated by the trams and the Metro has not yet recovered from the August floods so I set off early on foot. Roy lives far east of the river, out Vinohradska, a wide and impersonal street that feels, but isn’t, remote from the center of the city. I gave myself plenty of time to explore, figuring that if I were early I could camp out at an internet café.
On crossing Wilsonova (named for Woodrow Wilson, I presume) the city changes character. The older intimate buildings are replaced with large, more modern ones, many giving off the distinct sour pall of the communist era. Small shops and restaurants are less frequent and one encounters fewer English speakers. I got off Vinohradska to explore a large park, Riegrovy Sady. Here, autumn is more evident than in the heart of the city. The park seemed to be inhabited entirely by people walking their dogs or strolling with prams. An air of shabbiness hangs about the place, and the tall building surrounding are forbidding and mostly devoid of style. One building was pure east-bloc in style: stark and plain, the portico supported by improbably heroic figures straight out of the imagination of Josef Stalin. As if to mitigate this dreariness the whole had been painted a tomato soup red, which only underscored its depressing formidability. The neighborhood was starting to get to me, so I got back onto Vinohradska.
I found Velehradska, Roy’s street, and sure enough, I was early, so I walked along looking at shops. Nearby was a welcoming internet café so I went in and logged on. The first message I saw was from Roy: he was feeling sick and hoped to postpone our meeting till later in the week. So after checking my other messages I began the long trek back.
It was starting to sprinkle, so I walked along under the eaves as much as I could. Turning into a building that seemed to be lit up, I discovered a glossy western-style mall, all chrome and glass and chic shops. This suddenly put a nice face on the evening. After I’d dried off, I moved on down Vinohradska. On Wenceslas Square I walked into a clothing store I hadn’t noticed before and finally managed to replace my rather shabby tweed jacket. If anything, the rain had increased slightly. I’d seen an Italian restaurant earlier, Ristorante Venezia, and trotted off to it.
Ah, yes. This was exactly what I was looking for. The decor was your standard mittel-European romantic excess and the music was American rock and roll, but the food was the real thing, purely and delectably Italian. I had a flawless tomato and mozzarella and basil salad followed by fettucine al pesto washed down by a welcome glass of chianti.
When I left, the rain hadn’t abated a bit. Walking through sprinkles can be quite delightful, but if one gets sprinkled on long enough one becomes quite wet. By now I knew the most direct route to the Charles Bridge and lit out hell for leather. The bridge was deserted except for a handful of intrepid walkers and three beggars. (A parenthetical note: It’s a peculiarity of beggars in Prague to assume a position of utter abasement, haunches hoisted heavenward, forehead pressed to the pavement, a cup held forward.) By the time I got home I was drenched, but not unhappy. After a few licks of the hair dryer I was ready to settle in for the night.

October 26
I made a happy discovery for lunch. On lower Nerudova I found a little teashop and ordered a lovely tuna sandwich and a pot of rosebud tea with honey. Past this, Nerudova gets steeper, rising toward the Castle. The day had, against all expectations, gotten sunny and bright. I made for the Sternberg Palace, a small art collection within the Castle complex. It’s not bad, not altogether first-rate, since the cream of the collection was apparently carried off by the marauding Swedes in 1648. Some fine Brueghels remain, however, and a terrific Rembrandt, “The Scholar in his Study.” I haven’t explored this part of town properly yet, and in fact should force myself out of the city center to expand my horizons.
For dinner I’d been buzzing around a neighborhood place, El Centro. It’s Spanish, and the menu shows paella only prepared for two. I took a chance and found they would serve singles. The paella was nothing special, but at least plentiful -- with lots of seafood, not as fresh as I found in Spain but far better than nothing. I tried hard to concentrate on my meal instead of the unearthly beauty of the barman, possibly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

October 28
I’m beginning to fit in here. For some reason, or maybe a number of reasons, Prague doesn’t seem to be quite as foreign as it was yesterday. I guess I’m logging on to the pace, the feel, the labyrinthine paths through the city. I’m leaving the maps at home more often, too. I think I’m tuning into the city’s true nature: it’s not so much magical as it is surreal.
This became even more apparent as I settled into my seat at the dazzling gold and grey Estates Theatre this afternoon. No, it wasn’t Don Giovanni – not yet. A ballet is appearing for two performances only. Nekdo to rád… , believe it or not, is based on Billy Wilder’s Some Like it Hot. How could I resist, considering it’s one of my favorite movies of all time? In fact, I watched Nonie’s video of it only a week ago. Sitting next to me were a quintet of traveling Japanese who weren’t familiar with the film. I explained the plot to them so they wouldn’t be utterly lost, but I needn’t have bothered.
The ballet scenario sticks to the movie pretty closely, with a few minor adjustments. The boys are nightclub dancers, not musicians, and they witness the gangland slaying in the club, not a garage. Sweet Sue’s Society Syncopaters have conveniently become Sweet Sue’s ballet company. The two lead dancers were very funny, both together and separately. Although they didn’t look remotely like Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis I knew at once which was which.
The score is bright and funny and utterly original, although from time to time a musical quotation from “I Wanna Be Loved By You” serves as a nice touchstone to the movie. Oddly enough, this fizziest of film farces works wonderfully well as a ballet. By the time it ended I was disappointed that it couldn’t keep going for a little longer. The dancers must have felt the same way, for they milked the curtain call for all it was worth. I really couldn’t blame them; they’d worked their butts off.

November 1
This has to rate as one of the best days here so far – especially compared to the debacle of last night. (All right, if you really want to know, I went to a restaurant and had to leave because someone in the immediate vicinity smelled like the last day of the cattle show; the next two restaurants couldn’t seat me, and when I finally ordered a meal at restaurant number four it took 25 minutes to get my check when I’d finished. On returning to the flat I dropped a huge bottle of carrot juice which broke into a gazillion shards and took over an hour to clean up. There.)
Crossing the Charles Bridge I wish I’d had my camera along. A light fog had settled over the city, enveloping the spires and towers in a pall of grey velvet. None of the bridge musicians or tradesmen had appeared yet; one might have been transported back to the eighteenth century. I stopped for coffee and a croissant at Bakeshop Praha, read the Herald Tribune and said hi to Anne. Then I walked through the byways of the city, across the Hlavkuv Bridge to the Holesovice district. This part of town was a nice surprise, sprinkled with smart shops and little restaurants. I stopped at none of these.
The Centre for Modern and Contemporary Art is housed in the vast Trades Fair Palace, a Bauhaus-style barn, four floors of which are open to the public. I spent more than an hour on each floor, my heart racing with excitement. This collection, though filled with unfamiliar names, compares favorably with any museum of its type in the world. New York’s MoMA is a better collection, of course, but just barely.
The museum’s only apparent flaw is overabundance. Everything classifiable as art is here: painting and sculpture naturally, but also furniture, product design, the decorative arts, posters, stage design (particularly impressive, this), and architectural models. The galleries are laid out with a certain logic, but my worst fear was that I was going to miss something.
On the first floor I found the piece that most impressed me, The Face of the World, a 7-part folding screen painted around 1915 by Boris Grigoriev. I kept going back to it, and just before leaving I made a final visit. It is little more than a jumble of people, from all professions and classes, all done in a vivid painterly style falling just short of the grotesque. I expect to see this in my dreams for some time to come. On the next floor were five works by Jiri Kolar, elegant collages of print matter. These were of such exquisite beauty that an almost Zen-like calm settled over me and for fifteen minutes or so I walked back and forth between them absorbing their magic.
One remarkable piece, a monumental sculpture from WWI called “Fraternization” almost made me laugh in startled delight. In America howls of outrage would surely have removed this from the tender eyes of the kiddies, but in Europe hardly anyone would blink. Two larger than lifesize figures, an officer and a common soldier, are locked in a passionate kiss, an embrace almost operatic in its abandon. Only a few steps from this startling tribute to male love are the dreariest pieces you could ever want to see. In the spirit of inclusiveness the museum even makes obeisance to the most shameful “artistic” period in the nation’s history, soviet realism. Happy, smiling peasants in tableaux of the most boring activity. Dull, dull, dull -- imagination brutally banished.
I stopped for a ludicrously underpriced lunch (an enormous sandwich and coffee for about $1.75), then flung myself wholeheartedly into the glorious third floor, a dazzling collection of impressionists and early moderns. The gem of the collection is an Henri Rousseau self-portrait, but I admired even more the enormous sampling of Picassos. Every period is richly represented except the late neo-classic period.
By the time I got to the nineteenth century painting and sculpture on the top floor, art overload was definitely starting to kick in. I made a relatively quick tour through most of the early romantic landscapes and portraits, slowing down for the art nouveau furniture and furnishings at the end. After over five hours of this steady pace, everything I owned from the hips down was protesting loudly, so I bade a reluctant goodbye to this wonderland. I hope to make another visit before I leave.
Night had settled in, but it wasn’t cold at all and the city from this side of the river was glimmering like a diamond merchant’s tray. I stopped at a small restaurant, U Celestin, and had a heavenly concoction of sautéed chicken and pork with vegetables and black olives, then walked home. Paradise.

November 5
After lunch I walked to the National Theatre and got a ticket for tonight’s performance of Janacek’s Fate. Further up Narodni Street I stopped at Tesco for a snack: two marzipan oranges. These were of an oddly unmarzipanlike texture, highly artificial in color, soft and ultra-sweet and almost rubbery -- what you might expect if you bit into a Disney character.
Having made no real plans for the rest of the day I set out with the vague idea of museum-going. The National Museum, at the head of Wenceslas Square, seemed the logical choice – doable in a couple of hours, giving me time to linger over dinner. When I finally arrived at the doors I was greeted with the sign “closed first Tuesday of the month.” Today. Hmmm. The main train station was a short walk up Wilsonova. If I wanted to take a train to visit Dana over Thanksgiving I should familiarize myself with the station, right? But getting there wasn’t easy. Across from the museum is the Voice of America building. Since that black September 11 there has been a tank parked on the street in front and ferociously armed guards are positioned all around. Typically, I felt a mixture of apprehension and guilt walking past them. They let me pass unmolested – across the street. Hopping across traffic islands, through mud slicks and broken glass, dodging the cars racing along Wilsonova, I limped into the station.
Hlavni nadrazi is like no railway station in my experience. Descending into the bowels of the place I found a crumbling, weirdly lit cavern swarming with passengers and what I had been informed were bands of prowling rent-boys. This was the real thing, a place that felt utterly foreign, the heart of eastern Europe. Nothing was familiar except the pervasive odor of hot dogs and, like everywhere in the universe, the grinning familiar Coca Cola logo. I could discern no way to find out any information so I left, feeling that I might have better luck online. Further along underground was a way out, into a lovely autumnal park; suddenly the place didn’t look quite so otherworldly. I walked on, exploring this new neighborhood, and slowly began wending my way back toward the National Theatre. My cheeks tingled in the delicious cold. Winter is definitely coming on. And the Christmas decorations have started coming out.
The restaurant that caught my fancy tonight was Café Patio. It’s much more attractive than its lackluster name, all warm wood and soft light, hung about with Moroccan lanterns. The menu provides a fairly comprehensive international choice; the lanterns gently guided me to Middle Eastern. My chicken tajini was exquisite: a filling dish of tender chicken cooked in a sauce of onions, olives and potatoes, skillfully seasoned with a collection of spices I couldn’t identify – though I thought I could detect a whisper of cinnamon. I finished with a crème brulee that made me weak in the knees. It compared favorably with the best I ever had, in Rome a few years ago.
Fate is a problematical opera. Saddled as it is with an incoherent, senseless libretto, it has not fared well in the world’s opera houses. What saves it is the music, of a ravishing, swooping late-Romantic gorgeousness that carries all before it. (Lush but dissonant, it’s hard to believe it was written in 1905.) This production had another almost insurmountable problem; it’s directed and designed by Robert Wilson, whose A.R.T. production of Ibsen’s When We Dead Awaken is the only play I’ve walked out on. His highly artificial and stylized production seemed to serve the opera well in Act I, but it swiftly went downhill. Wilson’s attention-getting style all but blows kisses to itself. What in the world was the floating hat supposed to mean? Why the lead character’s odd make-up in Act III, one eye shadowed in red, the other in smudged black, a white line smeared from forehead down the bridge of his nose? For years people have mindlessly acclaimed Wilson’s perverse cuteness as originality. I maintain that the emperor is nekkid as a jaybird.

November 6
In spite of the lovely fact that the skies were clearing, I chose to spend most of the afternoon within the walls of the Convent of St. Agnes of Bohemia. Oh, I’m not converting – gathered together here is a huge collection of medieval and early Renaissance ecclesiastical art. And nothing but, except for one lone Lucas Cranach portrait of a sly-looking wench in full German Reformation high fashion, all brown ribbons and creamy flounces, bonnet roguishly atilt.
This is an astonishing display of work, mostly paintings and madonnas and saints carved from wood, with a few altarpieces thrown in for variety. If one has an enthusiasm for early religious painting (and I do) this is one of the most delicious experiences in town. I don’t know what it is that I respond to most: the stylized attitudes of the figures, the obsessive (almost gratuituous) detail, the perfervid faith on display.
It was all impressive, though a few pieces stand out as noteworthy. I was especially taken by a wood carving of the Lamentation. Christ, movie star handsome, is surrounded by seven other figures, all of them portrayed with sensitivity and individuality, with an exquisite attention to detail. There were three paintings of St. Barbara being decapitated. In the most impressive of the three, the saint kneels on the ground with a mingled look of misery and resignation on her face – a real woman facing eternity. Her executioner is twisted around with sword raised high, his whole body tensed to swing. The onlooking figures are nothing special, but the quality of the light, the gray clouds scudding across a dramatic sky, put this fine painting into a league of its own.
The collection is arranged so that one needn’t miss anything, the pieces displayed on walls of blackened silver. The guides, all dour middle-aged women, followed me with their narrowed eyes as if I might thrust a madonna under my coat and make a break for it. Perhaps it was just the novelty of a moving figure among the still art that put them on their guard.
Since Gaby was cleaning today (I think she prefers to work in solitude) I lingered in the town, stopping by Anagram Books to browse. In Wenceslas Square I bought a steaming cup of gluhwein as a small but welcome defense against the cold. On Pariszka I bought a CD collection of the work of Jaroslav Jezek, which I’d read described as sounding like partly like a nervous Gershwin, partly Kurt Weill. (It’s playing right now and it’s fabulous.) It occurred to me that it might be fun to watch a movie tonight (the video of the French comedy Amelie) with microwaved popcorn, really watch it without working on my wall hanging. I stopped by Tesco, which was at this hour elbow to elbow with grim-faced shoppers. No luck. Then I remembered there was a mini-mart upstairs. I found my popcorn (already popped), a sandwich and a box of cheap local wine. Good. I wouldn’t need to go out to dinner.
Walking back an unfamiliar way I discovered a beautiful little hidden square I hadn’t seen before. It forms a crescent around the Bethlehem Chapel. Making a note to come back another time, I walked on to the Charles Bridge. The sky was now completely cloudless. There were no musicians on the bridge except the old zither player. The National Theatre was bathed in green and silver light. Hradcany Castle glowed softly in the inky sky like stalagmites of spun gold. It was easy to forget that the authors of my being were Shirley and Ray Willhoite, and not the Brothers Grimm.

November 7
Today I finally met Roy Breimon. I had a muffin and a couple of pints of coffee at Bohemia Bagel, then walked south on this side of the river to the Jiraskuv Bridge. On the other side was Frank Gehry’s “Fred and Ginger” building. It is an oddity, resembling an old-fashioned corset standing up on its stays and swaying as if about to dance. I had no idea how long it would take me to get across the city, so I didn’t stop to admire it.
We’d arranged to meet at 2:30 at Husa, a popular restaurant on Vinohradska. I found what I assumed by the street signage must be the address I was looking for, but the barman told me that Husa was almost a mile up the street. It was now exactly 2:30, so already puffing with exertion, I streaked along and managed to arrive only twelve minutes late.
Roy is an American painter, in his early fifties, from Washington DC. He is tall, bald and plumpish, looking somewhat like the late Jackie Coogan, with a ring in one ear and what looks like a bite taken out of the other one (the bite having been pasted back on). I was a bit shy with him at first but quickly warmed up. After lunch we went back to his apartment/studio, where he showed me his work.
Roy is primarily a painter but works in print media as well, also stage and costume design. Some of his work was on the walls, big splashy male nudes. I found them somewhat evocative of Francis Bacon’s but without that painter’s nihilistic savagery. I especially liked his large paintings done on the backs of large sheets of lucite. He is currently working on several commissions, and is in every way a dedicated, hard-working professional artist.
Much of his work these days is done on the computer, and he ran through a good deal of this work demonstrating the programs he uses. Afterward he walked me up Vinohraska for several blocks then returned to his apartment. An out-of-town guest is expected this evening.

November 8
I went back to Betlemske Namesti, the little square I’d found the other night, and found myself in front of the ethnological museum, the Naprstek. It’s housed in a crumbling old villa, formerly a family home and brewery, accessible by a courtyard dominated by a large Canadian totempole. The entry of the museum is modern and beautifully lit, very promising. English translations on the exhibits are rare, but I was able to amble through the collection satisfying my visual appetite if not my curiosity. The Chinese collection on the ground floor was a model of a first-rate exhibit, so to a lesser degree was that of the pre-Columbian Indians. But on the top floor a huge display of artifacts from Australia and the south seas was gloomy and ill-lit; the objects in one display case might as easily have been musical instruments as weapons. At the end, a single case of masks from New Guinea was lit dramatically from below, giving the leering faces an unearthly, unnerving liveliness. With proper lighting, the rest of the gallery might have had the same dramatic impact these masks did. I went through the collection in under two hours and spent the rest of the afternoon walking along looking through antique shops.
Praguers generally serve their coffee in the Italian style – black, intense, and served in tiny cups. You buy one serving and that’s it. The bottomless cup, much beloved of the American palate and nervous system, seems to be the province of Bohemia Bagel only. My fondness for coffee is almost legendary, but Prague has too many intimate teahouses not to explore. On Ruzova I discovered a gorgeous little place of great character, filled with happy couples enjoying their tea -- so many in fact, that I couldn’t find a table.
My guidebook mentioned another teahouse off Wenceslas Square, Dobra Cajovna. It lay at the end of a long dark passage. Two young women were leaving so I darted over to their table as soon as they departed. This was just what I was hoping for, soft lamps glowing in a long room crowded with tiny tables -- bamboo wainscotting, soft red walls, two young waiters moving silently about. I was given a menu and a bell to summon my waiter when I’d made my selection. I ordered a plate of hummus and a pot of Nepal Fop. This tea, new to me, was dark amber, rich and nutty with a smoky note. The excellent hummus arrived on a small platter decorated with olives, sesame seeds and (my heart sank) the inevitable slices of cucumber. Here in Prague one finds this detestable vegetable tucked into virtually everything. I ignored them.
I sat reading my novel (Lampedusa’s The Leopard) and enjoying my tea as long as I reasonably could. I think this tearoom is going to see a lot of me.

November 9
Today at 4:30 I stopped to think about what was happening at that exact, split-second moment in Boston. My dim sum group had asked Nonie and Jan to join them and it was comforting to know that my friends, old and new, were together and perhaps thinking of me. Of course it was morning there, and I hope the weather was sunny and brisk because that’s the way I pictured it. For a good hour and a half the thought of this gathering warmed me.
Tonight I had a ticket to La Traviata at the National Theatre. It was a first-rate production, with beautiful singing by the equally beautiful leads. Of course in opera it isn’t necessary that romantic couples be good-looking, but anyone who tells you it really doesn’t matter is fooling himself. Over the last twenty or so years Puccini has become my favorite, but Verdi is still an Olympian, a master, and no opera composer will ever be better. Every musical phrase of La Traviata is familiar to me but it was thrilling anyway.

November 12
One thing to always remember while here: never let any passageway go unexplored. The city is la honeycomb of secret byways and hidden courtyards. One happy discovery was a small bookstore called Prospero, devoted to books on theatre. Deep within another narrow alley off Celetna I found I Sypane Caje (The Good Life Teahouse). It’s a tiny place, about the size of my bedroom but twice as high. The two tables below were occupied so I ordered a pot of China tea (“water sprite”) and climbed the steep stairway to the alcove above. Up here the décor was simple and spartan, almost Japanese: bare wood floors, plain wooden benches with cushions, dim lighting. I settled down to read. It was quiet and cozy up here, despite the soft whine of middle eastern music floating upward.
The waitress brought me my tea and three sesame seed cookies. The tea tasted pleasantly of straw with a faint scent of flower petals. I could have sat there for the rest of the day but outside it was sunny and warm. It seems my report of winter’s arrival was premature.

November 13
On the night of my fourth week here have I finally found a restaurant to call favorite? At 5:30 there was a showing of Saturday Night and Sunday Morning at the British Council. On the way back I started looking casually for a restaurant and found Stoleti. The name seemed propitious: an anagram for T S ELIOT (also, less happily, for TOILETS). Better still, the menu looked promising. Stoleti is a cozy cavern with vaulted ceilings and warm rosy light, and here in the front room was an amiable bustle. Quirky paintings, all by the same artist, look exactly like they belong here.
The names of the dishes are in English and Czech but they give you a running start by tagging each dish with a famous name. I started out with a Greta Garbo, half an avocado filled with cottage cheese, surrounded by a mound of green salad. The main dish, Pietro Mascagni, did the composer of Cavalleria Rusticana proud. This was a mountainous vegetarian risotto, mostly fabulous (yes, they managed to tuck a handful of cucumber chunks into it) which I’d gladly order again. This was washed down by a dark beer, a Krusovice, even better than its light variety.
On my walk back home the slight haze turned the sky to purple and the moon seemed to float in a veil of lace. All cities are beautiful at night, but the English language is somehow inadequate to describe the colors of Prague after dark.

November 14
It’s odd how the simplest things can make you happy.
Happiness can even come in the form of a much-needed repairman arriving to fix the washing machine. (Is this happiness, or just relief?) Later, sitting at Bohemia Bagel I noticed an elderly lady with the most emphatic black eyebrows that I’ve seen since Groucho Marx. She returned my smile – ah yes, another American. Two little girls from an adjoining table bounded over to hers and began telling her all their secrets. She was catnip to them. Age has no terrors if one can age like this, I thought. We’re born, we age, sicken and die, and in between are wonderful people to love, strange and new places to go and things to see, sensations to make our hearts race. I sat there filling up with euphoria. All right, it was possibly the coffee, but the feeling lasted till nightfall. That’s too long to ascribe to a caffeine high.
It followed me up the mountain. Fifteen minutes later I took the tram up Petrin Park, surely the best ride in town. On the way up I thought how glorious the park must be in spring or summer. But when I walked out onto the summit the severe beauty of the bare trees, their branches twisting like black smoke into the pewter sky, told me this was the time to be here. From the lower reaches of the city Petrin Park is a mountain, but here on top it was flat. I walked along a tall wall, crenellated like a castle’s battlements, a sheer drop to the right of the path. Two unfamiliar birds, possibly a European variety of magpie, chirred noisily at each other as they flitted through the thickly clustered trees. Further along was the Petrin tower, a one-third size miniature of the Eiffel Tower. I walked along slowly, savoring the crisp, cold moist air against my face.
I had intended to check on rental car rates with Alimex, a company up in a neighborhood west of the castle, then go on down to the Hradcany Palace Picture Gallery and spend the rest of the afternoon there while Gaby was back at the flat cleaning. I found Alimex and yes, they have the best rate. But now I decided to simply walk, to let the day flow over me and save the Gallery for when I had more time. Then I remembered that Maly Buddha, a teahouse I’d wanted to try earlier (it was closed) was in the neighborhood.
So is it my fate to find a favorite place to eat or take tea, and then have it rapidly supplanted by another? Maly Buddha is surely the best teahouse so far, a dark cave like the best of them, but with more space to spread out. At the darkened end of the room I could only see glimmers of lacquered wood carvings set in the walls. Here there might be dragons sleeping. This area is divided from the main end by a sort of improvised screen of long irregular poles. A huge paper globe of lantern gives off a pale orange light. The effect is of the moon smiling through trees. I ordered a pot of Tibetan clove tea and settled down to read. Yes, this was Eden, with only one tiny serpent: my plump teapot seemed contrived to pour as much tea on the table as in my cup.
Afterward, aglow with a sense of supreme well-being and determined to return to Maly Buddha as soon as possible, I began the trek downhill. At a little toyshop I bought a couple of irresistible mechanical tin toys, then came to Hradcanske namesti, the stately square west of the Palace. Since this was a day to explore I headed north, into the oldest part of the city. Here are high walls twisting along the streets, opening up again when I came to an ancient church. Coming back into the castle grounds from the north I spotted a gallery showing the work of Jiri Sopko, an artist unfamiliar to me.
Sopko is apparently of some note and national fame here but I wasn’t impressed. These recent huge canvases generally depict vaguely sexless figures in simple, scrubbed-paint renderings, in senseless, mechanical combinations. They glow with color, but that’s the extent of their charm. His particular schtik is apparently to find a theme that pleases him, then repeat it in triplicate with minor variations. The best part of the exhibit, I thought, were two quite pretty girls making the rounds with me. I caught one gazing intently at me, perhaps trying to gauge from my reaction how one was supposed to react to these chilly, shallow canvases. What really infuriated me was that every now and then I came upon a painting in which one could actually see evidence of talent, in which something was really happening.
As I was leaving, convinced I’d been snookered out of the Czech equivalent of three bucks, another sweet young thing informed me the show was continued upstairs. I had nothing to lose so I went up. Smart move. The show turned out to be a retrospective, and his paintings from the sixties were astounding! This was fine work, messy and unfocused, but impassioned. One could see the joy of painting here, the sense of play struggling with the quest for meaning. Further along the wall, in the seventies, you could see the artist beginning to stumble, but he was still a contender. By way of contrast, in the work below Sopko was simply going through the motions, coasting on an assured reputation. Hackwork.
Outside dusk was gathering. Prague’s true colors are blue and gold, never more than in these fugitive moments between day and night, when the cobblestones in the street glow in the lamplight like spilled coins. St. Vitus’s Cathedral shimmered with light against the shocking blue sky, all shaggy brown and gold behind black naked trees.
Even a gray day can be gaudy with color if you look closely. Open your eyes. You can be in Paris or Gotebo, Oklahoma, it doesn’t matter. Open your eyes and look. Look hard.

November 16
This morning at ten o’clock, Sylva Lacinova and Jiri Komprda arrived on my doorstep. Sylva is Jan’s mother and Jiri is (in Jan’s word) her boyfriend. The picture of Sylva in Jan and Nonie’s kitchen, a young woman in a cap and rumpled work clothes standing beside a large stone figure of a bear, didn’t prepare me for how lovely she is. Sylva is seventy-nine, quite small, with a strong nose and the same twinkly eyes that she passed on to her son. We went around the corner to a small café for a very pleasant couple of hours together over coffee and croissants. Since she speaks no English, Jiri translated. The difficulties with language were minimized by Jiri’s easy command of English, but I wanted to ask Sylva much more about her work than I was able. I knew only that she is a sculptor whose work was banned from being shown when she fell afoul of the soviet authorities in the late sixties.
When we parted, Jiri told me of a monograph on Sylva’s work at the house so I went back to find it. Her sculpture tends toward the monumental, and has some affinities with the work of Henry Moore. Most of her early work is representational, edging more toward abstraction later. Ironically, some of her largest pieces seem to soar, with a lightness that belies their size. She has worked in stone, cast metal and wood, and there were even examples in the book of her work in mosaic. It was an honor to meet an artist who has striven so hard to produce an admirable body of work, worked to create beauty in direct defiance of a repressive regime.

November 17
When I arrived at the courtyard in front of Hradcany Palace a trio was playing Schubert’s Marche Militaire. You might not expect a flute, bass, and accordion to be an agreeable mix but the crowd was eating it up. The flautist, bald, with huge muttonchop whiskers shooting out like the tailfins of a ’59 Chevy, was clearly the star of the group. I listened for only a minute, then went into the second courtyard to see the Prague Castle Picture Gallery. It’s a small, mostly good collection assembled by Rudolf II, who was not, I think, the most judicious collector. Only one item was an unchallenged masterpiece, a small Holbein portrait of an unidentified woman. Holbein is the greatest portraitist who ever lived or will live, so to me this was clearly the highlight of the collection.
St. Vitus’s cathedral, across the courtyard, is a typical gothic church and one of the dampest, chilliest spaces I’ve ever been in. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sides of beef hanging in the sacristy. But it was a sunny day and light streamed in. All the stained glass windows here are products of the twentieth century. If most of them are nothing special, the six windows closest to the west portal are masterful. The most celebrated of the six is an art nouveau extravaganza by Alphonse Mucha. This window celebrates the lives of the Slavonic saints Cyril and Methodius, and looks less like his famous poster work and more like the illustrations of Maxfield Parrish or N.C. Wyeth. It is justly famous. But brilliant as this window is, I preferred its five closest neighbors, designed in the early 1930s. The jewel-like panes of glass are assembled with fire and imaginative zest, flooding the church with color. In, on, or around virtually any cathedral in Europe one may find gorgeous graphic espressions of faith too powerful for words. Why have the world’s religions, which continue to visit the most unimaginable horrors upon humanity, been the inspiration for so much great art?
When I came back out the trio was still playing. The flautist had put his instrument aside to sing a sentimental Czech song and some of the crowd were singing along with him, swaying rhythmically.

November 19
I have been in Prague now for almost five weeks, and today I finally feel I have connected with the Czech people in the most intimate, elemental, and passionate way. Jan’s friend Jan Dungel (nickname: Honza) had emailed me to let me know he could be found at Lemonade Joe’s, near Namesti Republiky, between 2 and 2:30 this afternoon. Honza was accompanied by another friend, Vladimir, already sharing a bottle of red Moravian wine. A few minutes later we were joined by Honza’s girlfriend, Radka Blazkova. Radka is a vivacious blonde with bright, deepset eyes, an animated face and a blazing intelligence.
Honza is a biologist and writer who has fallen madly for Venezuela. His hobby – his passion, really -- is to crawl through its jungles, sketching the animal and bird life. He had brought along a small portfolio of his work. It is, in a word, brilliant, with a jeweller’s attention to detail. One is tempted to say that his best work is his bird illustrations, but only because of their vivid colors. His capybaras and monkeys are portrayed as lovingly as the birds. As one who has also done scientific illustration I was impressed by his technical finesse and by his artistry.
Vladimir, a burly bald man who reminded me of a young, vibrant Nikita Khruschchev, is a writer too. He has just published a travel book on Venezuela. Eventually he had to run off to another engagement, so Honza, Radka and I ordered another bottle of wine and moved in closer together.
This was the first conversation I’ve had since I’ve been in Prague that has touched on more than simple pleasantries. An exhibit of soviet-era artwork at the Rudolfinium led to a discussion of politics. Honza expressed revulsion for this absurdly idealized artwork, the pictures of blissful workers, of beaming Josef Stalin being presented with garlands of flowers by happy children. Both Honza and Radka are old enough to remember with sickening vividness the years of soviet oppression. They both opened up to me about their passionate feelings on freedom, the changes in the Czech Republic, and their cautious hopes for the future. Both confessed that, even now in the days of liberation from the yoke of the communist system, that Russia still looms as a vague threat, if only a psychological one.
Our conversation never flagged for a minute; this felt like only the first of many meetings. Happily, Honza, Vladimir and Radka meet regularly at Lemonade Joe’s on Tuesday afternoons and I will be seeing them again.

November 20
President Cheney’s monkey arrived yesterday for the NATO summit, the prospect of which has thrown the city into a state of barely controlled edginess. At least that’s the way it feels. The people of Prague, having seen the Nazis take over and the Russians roll in with tanks, are burrowing away into their homes for the three days of the conference. Security is heightened, protests are expected, and preparations are even being made for possible acts of terrorism. Several groups of anarchists here are well organized (a fact rich in irony) and plan to march. In this week’s issue of The Prague Post there are maps detailing the parts of the city forbidden to anyone not carrying proper papers. The local video store will be closing; so will many shops and restaurants; whole neighborhoods will be silent. Given the almost palpable air of menace in the air I had intended to rent a car and drive to Vienna till the summit blew over. But this morning I looked through Nonie’s Vienna guidebook and decided to stay here and wait it out like everyone else. Vienna is too rich a dessert to devour in a scant three days and besides, I haven’t made hotel reservations. The best idea is to carefully plan a trip there, for at least a week, when I return from Thanksgiving in Germany.
Heading out for lunch today I noticed that the embassies (many in this neighborhood) are roped off and under guard. After eating I walked over to the British Council to read the papers and afterwards took a walk around the city. Only a few people were about, far fewer tourists than usual. Old Town Square was devoid of all but a handful of people, though the cafés optimistically remained open. Small groups of policemen were scattered about the city, looking either faintly embarrassed or bored. On other streets policemen were stationed singly, trying to look formidable. None of the people I saw looked dangerous, though I did pass a nervous little knot of scruffy student types carrying furled flags. They weren’t protesting or causing any trouble, but looked as if they were considering doing so. Eventually the empty streets began to feel vaguely oppressive so I headed back home.
I was in the mood for Chinese food and stopped at the Neptune, near the bridge. I was the sole customer. This meal turned out to be a grievous disappointment and tasted about as Chinese as a Yorkshire pudding. The spring roll, the size of a woman’s evening bag and oozing fat, was barely edible. The ‘chicken in special sauce’ was devoid of character, greasy and mouth-puckeringly salty. The meat, if indeed it was chicken, could just as easily have been poodle. The sauce almost certainly came from a foil packet.
Even now, at only seven o’clock Charles Bridge was virtually deserted. Attached to the steeple of a church near the castle an enormous heart in red neon floated incongruously, like a talisman against harm. In the windows of the local market several gas masks were displayed, a grim attempt at humor. I wonder what the next few days will bring. In any case, when I go out it might be best to carry my passport.

November 21
In the morning I watched the opening of the NATO summit on TV. Bush spoke haltingly as usual, like someone was feeding him lines through a hearing device. (What a silver-tongued orator!) The city was calm when I walked over Charles Bridge for lunch at Bakeshop Praha, though three-quarters of the usually bustling crowd had vanished. Most of the shops and restaurants in the Old Town were open. I neither heard the rattle of distant gunfire nor smelled napalm. When I came out of the Museum of Decorative Arts the sky was a vivid violet, and a helicopter puttered overhead like a huge, watchful dragonfly. One more day of waiting.

November 27
I am writing this entry in my cousin Dana’s house in Siegelbach, Germany. It feels like a minor miracle that I actually made it. Yesterday after picking up the car I’d reserved at Alimex, I went back to pick up my bags. I knew it would be difficult driving back to the center of town but I never expected such a hellish ordeal. I became instantly and hopelessly lost. Reaching a dead end in a labyrinthine neighborhood, I found out I could not put the car into reverse. However, I rolled back slowly and got back on my way, and finally found a major artery, utterly unfamiliar to me. The sky was dark with clouds so I had no sun, no landmarks to guide me. Suddenly, here was a square I knew! Joyfully, I headed toward Hradcany castle and the square leading to Nerudova. Halfway down the street Nerudova unexpectedly turned into a one-way. Furious drivers from the opposite direction were honking and glaring at me so I stopped and attempted to turn around. Blocking the street, nose of the car jammed up against a building, and utterly unable to back up, I summoned a nearby workman – who spoke not a lick of English. After a good five minutes he finally managed to put the car into reverse by reaching across my lap and jiggling the gear shift. Back at the square I took the road back to the palace and fueled by desperation, made a hairpin turn down a street that was possibly not designed for cars. I drove down the lower leg of Nerudova, knowing full well I was driving the wrong way down the street and not caring a whit. Luckily no policemen spotted me. Eventually I got back to my own neighborhood and picked up my bags. At the last minute I ran back to get a street atlas of Prague (the smartest decision I made all day) then drove immediately back to Alimex to learn how to reverse.
It still took over an hour to get out of Prague. Trying to find the D5 toward Pilsen I had to stop and ask three different people, only one of whom was helpful. Once out of the city, the rest of the drive to Germany was pleasant, if long. In Kaiserslautern, my cousin’s directions had omitted a single vital detail that had me driving around the city for a good hour looking for Siegelbach, a village so small it’s not even on the map. At a drive-in grocery I was given directions by a kindly man in silver crewcut and multiple piercings, and finally found my way to route 270. When I reached the turnoff to Siegelbach, the memories from my visit of two years ago kicked in and I easily found Dana’s house.
Today, while Dana was at work, I drove into Kaiserslautern and explored the shops. Kaiserslautern is fairly new and crisp, as it had to be substantially rebuilt after being pounded by allied bombing in the war. Nonetheless, it is a charming town with friendly, helpful people. I was unsuccessful in my search for yarn for the wall hanging, but encountered several people who were willing to give me directions and a friendly smile. That hasn’t always been my experience in Prague.

November 28
It is Thanksgiving Day. Dana and I drove to the IKEA outside Saarbrucken to do some shopping, then to Luxembourg for dinner. Luxembourg is a lovely country of rolling hills and farmland. Suddenly you find yourself winding through a forest of tall deciduous trees in a pale violet haze. The forest floor is a soft carpet of dark pink fallen leaves. The road spins out ahead, dreamlike, then the capitol city unfolds before you.
Dana and I strolled through the city, a stately, clean capitol cut through by the Mosel River. Luxembourg seems to be an easy amalgam of the French and German styles; the signage is in both languages, with the French predominating. Stopping at a bakery, windows full of the most elaborately decorated cakes and tortes and small pastries, we bought a torte au chocolat and a petit gentilhomme (a sort of gingerbread man made of doughnut dough). Dinner was at a favorite spot of Dana’s, La Lorraine. Our seafood meal (red snapper on a pastry shell) was introduced by a shared appetizer of chicken livers and mushrooms. All this was accompanied by a fine, crisp pinot blanc. Not a bad substitute meal for a turkey dinner.

November 29
Today, Dana’s birthday, we drove across another border -- to France. Metz is one of Dana’s favorite destinations, possibly because my uncle Don was stationed here during the war. We had a classic French lunch at Chez du Mon Oncle Albert, then did some shopping in a vast modern mall. Soon, after all this gleam and glitter palled we walked the streets looking at the little shops, then drove back to Kaiserslautern.
Dinner was at Burgschaenke, a hotel-restaurant I remembered with keen pleasure from my first visit here two years ago. My dish was a platter of cheese spaetzel under a layer of heavenly sauteed onions which to my astonishment and relief did not keep me up all night.

November 30
Dana had many chores to take care of today so I drove down to Strasbourg. This is now my second-favorite French city after Paris. Strasbourg is the spiritual center of Alsace-Lorraine and therefore both French and German in culture. The architecture is decorated with arabesques and curlicues in wrought iron, underscoring its Gallic essence. The gothic cathedral rises proudly above a welter of lesser buildings, many half-timbered. On several squares holiday markets have been set up. The largest was filled with kiosks largely devoted to foodstuffs, its eastern end a market for Christmas trees. I have never seen so many perfectly shaped trees all together.
The city was glutted with holiday shoppers, all smiling with holiday spirit, unlike the throngs moving sluggishly through glutted American malls, snarls at the ready, willing to duke it out over a parking space. Of course it’s early in the season yet. Perhaps the Strasbourgers will lose their sang-froid as the holiday draws near.
I knew I wanted to have lunch at Au Pied du Cochon, one of many small establishments facing a small square. A mime was working the crowd. I generally find them a dreary nuisance but this man was dressed like Charlie Chaplin. His antics were accompanied by a recording of the soundtrack from City Lights, and his manner was as gentle and diffident as Chaplin’s. As I was walking into Au Pied du Cochon, a tiny middle-aged woman, alarmed by a pigeon, flew almost into my arms. She laughed at her alarm and I pretended to protect her from the aggressive bird. Once I was seated, a knobby little waitress served me a poulet aux Riesling with spaetzel and a half-carafe of pinot noir – perfection. I finished with an old favorite, Peach Melba, an orgasm in whipped cream, raspberry sauce and guilt.
I walked for hours, exploring the small flea market in the rue de Marche aux Poissons, buying a loaf of bread for this evening’s dinner, and looking (again without success) for my yarn. Everyone I met was again friendly and helpful.
On my way down I had driven through much of the German and French countryside but took the autobahns back. Getting off at Neustadt, I took a lesser road back to Kaiserslautern, passing through the town of Frankenstein. (I sighted no monsters.)
Back at the house, Dana was in the midst of preparing a lucullan banquet. We began with a duck pate and some camembert. The star of the show was an exquisite grilled salmon. Its co-star the salad was escarole with walnuts, sesame seeds and red onions. All this was served with the Bohemian champagne I’d brought from Prague.

December 3
I drove to Frankfurt with no confidence whatever, absolutely certain I’d be lost for hours. But somehow I arrived in the precise part of the city I was aiming for, three blocks from the Staedelsche Kunstinstitut. My luck continued: I immediately found a parking space just off Holbeinstrasse, which a lanky native informed me was free of charge until 3:00. The museum turned out to charge no admission on Tuesdays. And I got there just as it was opening.
The Staedelsche Kunstinstitut stands proudly on the south bank of the river Main. This fine collection is too little known to American visitors. The twentieth century part of the collection is comprehensive, if a bit heavy on German Expressionism. (I really cannot abide Max Beckmann.) All schools of European art are fully represented, from the middle ages to yesterday afternoon. The Flemish and North German parts of the collection are breathtaking, of course, and they even have one of the rarest of the rare, a fine Vermeer.
I walked through in a transport of delight, almost whimpering with pleasure. After all, it was my first museum in weeks. But looking at great art is like brandy: too much is as inadvisable as not enough. Taking care not to overindulge, I took a break for lunch in the café. As I sat finishing up my gnocchi, the voice of Ella Fitzgerald singing “S’Wonderful” floated down like a spirit from above, magically creating another of those rare moments of pure, focussed happiness. Refreshed and fortified with coffee, I returned for more art.
Most museums have a museum shop. Some are great, some are not. This one possesses the most extensive collection of art books I’ve seen outside the Metropolitan in New York. Before leaving I so completely buried myself in the goodies I almost forgot I’d planned to leave by three. Bounding back to the car to beat the meter maid, I left town before rush hour and drove back to Kaiserslautern, once again without getting lost.
In downtown Kaiserslautern the streets were bustling with shoppers, already stocking up for Christmas. I stopped for a gluhwein at one of the Christmas huts and stood watching the people all around me. A spirit of gemutlichkeit hovered in the crisp air, here under the rosy lights. Everyone was in a good mood, jolly and friendly, caught up in the enthusiasm for the coming holiday. I thought how odd it was to be in a country with a vicious Nazi past, and no hint of it in the people here.
Back at the house, Dana had already made a reservation for dinner at Il Capriccio, where I was fortunate enough to find my favorite pasta dish, paglia e fieno. I was sorry that these would be my last real moments with Dana, for I leave early in the morning.

December 5
The drive back was uneventful, except for one startling mishap: a rock bounced off a truck outside Plzen and put a huge circular crack in the windshield, the cost of which I will have to absorb. As I came into town, the Prague streets once again had me spinning in circles, fighting down panic and despair. It was drizzling, and dark, too, which didn’t help matters. Eventually I made it back home to drop off the bags, then easily drove back up the hill to return my little Fabia Skoda.
Today was cold and foggy, but walking south along the river I realized how happy I was to be back, how much I love this city. The young woman at the video store even welcomed me back and asked how my trip was.

December 6
I’ve found the perfect restaurant -- again. Kogo is in a spruce, spanking new mall off Na Prikope, and what initially drew me in was a tempting display in front of fresh seafood on a bed of ice.
Kogo is noisy and busy and the waiters bustle about with a sense of high purpose. The place sparkles with light and gleaming surfaces and a heady aroma of good food issues from the kitchen. The kitchen, in fact, is open to view. The focus is on Italian food but I had a mixed grill of seafood, with the heavenly baked vegetables and a glass of soave. All the seafood was superb, the best I’ve had in Prague so far, tender and buttery and fragrant with lemon. The only sour note was a businessman at the next table, puffing on the most poisonously pungent cigar in Christendom. But smoking in restaurants is one of the crosses one bears in Europe and the celestial chow made up for anything.
Rigoletto is one of those operas I’ve heard but never seen. Tonight’s production at the National Theatre was spotty but enjoyable. I’d lucked into a terrific seat in the second row. The set was an ingeniously constructed revolving one-piece structure dominated by a large marionette figure of Rigoletto the hunchbacked jester, mounted on a pole. The costumes were a mild misfire. Rigoletto is set in the 16th century and although the jester and the Duke of Mantua were costumed in period dress, the rest of the cast seemed to have wandered in from the Victorian era. But no matter, the singing was what mattered.
The Duke was once again the National Opera’s star tenor, the dazzling Valentin Prolat. He’s a first-rate singer and was in good voice tonight. In “La donna é mobile” he strutted about the stage throwing off testosterone like a wet dog shaking off water. Of course the crowd went wild. Ivan Kusnjer sang the title role with great power and sympathy. Tonight’s Gilda, Marina Vyskvorkina, is pretty in a kind of chipmunk-cheeked, Mitzi Gaynor fashion. She sent the audience into a controlled frenzy with “Cara nome” but I thought her voice sounded tight, with her vibrato squeezed out like toothpaste. Gilda – as a character -- is sort of a credulous idiot, but she had the audience’s sympathy anyway.
The famous quartet in the last act was delicious, if inadvertantly comic. Sparafucile’s daughter Maddalena, an amiable tavern slut, was suitably costumed in beads and bangles, with hair in tangles and a cleavage like the Royal Gorge. But Lenka Smidova is – to put it kindly -- built along the lines of a sumo wrestler. Another twenty pounds or so and she could have sung all four parts herself. Still, the quartet was a rainbow of musical colors, emotionally ambiguous and rich, and rapturously sung.

December 7
It is early on a sub-zero Saturday evening and my head is swimming with delight. I came about this feeling in an odd, roundabout way.
The day began cloudy and dank. But during lunch a pale lemony light came through and eventually the clouds cleared completely.
This afternoon I finally got to the Rudolfinium to see the exhibition of Czechoslovak Socialist Realism painting. The show is a large one, but aside from a single painting – one! -- there is nothing even remotely redeeming in the whole collection. How can such a vast conglomeration of worthless trash have been painted in the first place? The answer can be found in the dead end that is Marxism, in its absolute lack of faith in the free human spirit. The subject matter varied wildly but the essential painting style was depressingly homogeneous. Apple-cheeked, fatuously grinning peasants, young soldiers with godlike profiles and hard flinty eyes, scenes of worksites and foundries – all were rendered in the same flat, colorless style, devoid of imagination, expressivity, and joy. The dominant color throughout was dishwater gray, with the requisite flashes of good Marxist red. Even in the paintings with no overt political content, like pictures of children playing, one can sense the qualities essential to art being brutally tamped down into a mush of soviet “correctness.”
Worst of all are the ludicrously idealized leaders. The nadir of the collection is a portrait of that lovable old rogue Uncle Joe Stalin, standing behind a low balustrade and beaming at the viewer with the sweetness of an angel. He wears a pristine white uniform and stands idly fondling – I am not making this up – a rosebud!
Dreariest of the lot are the many studies of the first president of this Soviet “Republic,” Klement Gottwald. His broad, dull, badger-like face with its prissy, constipated little mouth dominates the collection, though he died after only five years in office. A reverential procession of “scenes from the life” show this humorless, gray nonentity studying to prepare for his glorious destiny – reading by lamplight, precociously lecturing his schoolmates, working grimly in a factory as a thin, poker-faced child.
The largest gallery is devoted to landscapes but even these are flat and unimaginative. You have to wonder: how could artists screw up trees and mountains? Well, these do. The sole exception is a landscape by Josef Jambor. It’s painted with soft elegance and attention to detail, the colors and brushwork suggesting the racing pictures of Degas.
This spirit-crushing art was, astonishingly, imposed on one of the most gracious cities in Europe, a city now humming with gaiety and color and light. The art one sees in the galleries now is generally so fanciful that it must be either a conscious reaction against soviet realism or simply an explosion of creativity released after decades of bondage. One appreciates what someone like Jan’s sculptor mother had to work against, how she must have chafed at having to work under a regime that required such soul-destroying regularity of its artists.
I left the Rudolfinium angry and depressed that this fairy-tale city, with its thousand spires, its iron lace and angels in stone, should have had to live under such enforced colorlessness. To cleanse my mind and spirit I wandered over to Pariszka, surely one of the prettiest streets in the city. Tiny lights were twinkling in the trees, shoppers were abroad, and more happy surprises lay ahead in Old Town Square.
In the week I was gone, the little Christmas huts have sprung up, selling handicrafts and food and drink. An immense Christmas tree stands shimmering in a veil of gold lights, and behind it, the towers of Our Lady of Tyn are softly illuminated in pale blue light. The crowds were daunting, but a choir was being led through a program of holiday music, nobody seemed to be hurried or fretful, and even the bitter cold contributed to the spirit. The walk back home chilled me to the bone and my left knee was once again acting up badly, but it didn’t matter. Prague was itself again.

December 9
I can usually manage to talk myself into seeing a gray day as a silver one but the last few weeks have sorely tested my powers. Prague looks perfectly fine under leaden skies but ever since it cleared on Saturday the sky has been sapphire blue and perfectly cloudless. The sun is shining brightly enough to please anyone. Yes, it’s blisteringly cold and the musicians have disappeared from the Charles Bridge – except for a lone bell-ringer in gloves -- but somehow that doesn’t seem to matter.
To stay inside would have been like refusing a beautiful gift and after all, I had to go over to a travel agency and make reservations for my trip to Vienna on Saturday. For lunch I made a real discovery. In a courtyard just off Bethlehem Square, the Architecture Club advertises a restaurant. It’s in an ancient cellar, vaulted in brick arches, engagingly lit, and the aromas from the kitchen wafted all the way up to the street.
Since the place was full I was seated next to two older men, a Briton and a Belgian, chatting in English. I started with a Greek salad. It distresses me now to conclude that cucumbers, besides being the bane of my life, are surely the main agricultural product of the Czech Republic. But the feta cheese and olives and tomatoes made me happy and the main course was one of the best concoctions I’ve had since coming to Prague: thick potato pancakes topped with smoked salmon and onions, served with shredded Chinese cabbage and a generous serving of a heavenly mustard – and, oh yes, another fistful of chopped cucumbers which I pushed aside with a shudder.
Although pleasantly full, I was unable to resist dessert. The waiter couldn’t quite describe to me what an “empty head” was, but the name was too irresistible to pass up. It turned out to be an artful construction of light frothy chocolate mousse and pieces of cake soaked in some kind of liqueur, guarded at four corners by towers of whipped cream drizzled with chocolate sauce. When my chocolate coffee arrived, I wondered if I hadn’t bitten off a bit more than I could chew. But what the hell, you can’t chew whipped cream and going without food for the next three weeks will certainly melt away the calories I consumed today.

December 12
Last night I went to the opera at the National Theatre again. Dvorak’s Rusalka was brand-new to me, neither seen nor heard before. I had a good seat on the eighth row, next to a vivacious young woman from Singapore. She’s here with a huge group doing Europe in a whoosh: Budapest, Vienna, Salzburg, Prague. I liked her.
Rusalka is based partly on Hans C. Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, partly on the Undine legend. It was a spotty production, with good singing but weird, off-putting sets and ham-handed direction.
Helena Kaupova, an ethereal blonde, was very convincing as a water nymph, and stunning as a supermodel. She was tricked out in several square acres of gauzy stuff and sang with a light, supple voice. The National’s star baritone Ludek Vele, who was a splendidly creepy Sparafucile in last week’s Rigoletto, sang the role of the ancient water sprite. He was good as usual. But his costume was a little unnerving: yards and yards of green gossamer topped with what looked like an enormous Caesar salad. As Vele’s face suggests both Jackie Gleason and Yassir Arafat, it was a little disconcerting. But he sang well, as usual.
The set for the lake was odd but effective. But in the second act I saw in the Prince’s palace a distinct whiff of Coney Island. At the end of the act, however, they scored a magnificent coup de theatre when the set seemed to melt into the stage. As for the direction, well, the director got off easy by not really directing at all, just instructing his nymphs and sprites to writhe around a bit.
Today the sun has disappeared again. When I took the tram to the top of Petrin Hill, there was a light frosting of snow on the ground. Ominous.

December 13
Few pleasures are as rewarding as seeing a work of incandescent genius properly performed. Tonight I finally got to see Don Giovanni at the Estates Theatre. I can’t imagine a better production: singing, sets, direction, costume – everything blended into a harmonious whole. The singing was superb, with two clear standouts. Donna Elvira was sung with icy brilliance by Jitka Sobehartova. She burst onstage like an angry wasp and her desire for vengeance was awesome to behold. Jiri Sulzenko sang Leporello. I’ve never seen a better one, nor do I expect to. He was a perfect foil to the Don, funny and charming and with one of the best voices I’ve ever heard on a stage. He’s a splendid actor, too. Acting usually gets short shrift in opera, but the entire cast had been carefully directed to act as well as they sung. Tonight there was no question that Mozart meant his opera to be a comedy, glittering and diamond-hard. In short, this was the best production of an opera that I’ve seen since an unforgettable Porgy and Bess back in the seventies.

December 14
I left for Vienna from Holesovice station, a lonely and depressing place. But the train trip was gloriously enjoyable. It took five hours, a perfect chance to see the countryside without having to keep my mind on driving. I was alone in my compartment; my reading was interrupted only once before customs, when a slight young man with bright eyes and elvish whiskers came by with his food cart. As we crossed the Austrian border a distinct air of prosperity began to be felt; even the landscape had a somewhat Teutonic neatness to it.
Vienna was stingingly cold, and I had to walk three very long blocks to the Underground. When I finally got on, it was an easy and fast trip to Schwedenplatz station. My hotel, the Mercure City, is a four-star hotel across the Donau Canal, a quick walk to the Hofburg. My room was small but newly furnished and stylish (even if the style is circa 1972).
On my first stroll through Vienna I couldn’t help comparing the two cities. Prague could have been created by the design firm of Edgar Allan Poe and Hans Christian Andersen. It’s dark and Gothic, a pincushion of spires and towers. Vienna on the other hand is Baroque, all domes and fountains, gods and mythical beasts in stone. The contrast alone was delightful.

December 15
I discovered the best thing about my hotel in the morning: the breakfast. Vast mounds of food, eggs and sausages and bacon, a salad bar, toast and muffins and cereals and a groaning board of pastries.
My main reason for wanting to get to Vienna was to see one of the great museums of Europe, the Kunsthistorisches Museum. There is really little I can say about it except to report that I walked around enraptured for the six hours plus that I spent there.
When asked who my favorite painter is, I can usually boil it down to two: Monet or Holbein. But my favorite painting in all the history of art has never changed from the first time I saw it: Jan Brueghel’s “Hunters in the Snow.” I spent a good half hour absorbing its beauties, seeing things I hadn’t seen before. The focal point is the hunters and their dogs returning from the hunt. I’d never noticed that there are thirteen dogs and only three hunters. Their bag: a single rabbit. Somber colors, a gray day, and yet the total effect is of calm, of the beauty of winter. You can feel the cold, even the amount of moisture in the air.
My knee was never worse than today, but somehow it didn’t matter. Art is the best medicine. I had Cajun food at a little place near the hotel and fell into bed exhausted.

December 16
A couple of inches of snow had fallen during the night, a new coating of whipped cream on this confection of a city. I went out on a successful search for some of David Frost’s opera CDs: four from his wish list. The last shop I hit was alongside the Vienna Staatsoper, next to the box office. At this great opera house I could either see Krenek’s Jonny Speilt Auf, which I’d recently heard on CD and disliked, or La Boheme the following night. I reluctantly passed.
Since I’d come perilously close to shutting down from art overload on Sunday, I spent the day in the Natural History Museum, across the Maria Theresaplatz from the Kunsthistorisches Museum. Not only is it a fine museum, but it cleared my palate for more art on the following days.
That night I ended up at a dark little Spanish place, El Pulpo, for dinner. Of course I had to try the paella, my favorite dish. The proprietor was also my waiter, a thin, saturnine man with dark tragic eyes. A casting agent would have cast him as the perfect mortician.

December 17
The Upper Belvedere is a jewel of a museum in the former palace of Prince Eugene. Here is a peerless collection of Vienna Secession painters: Egon Schiele, Oskar Kokoschka and best of all, Gustave Klimt. While an art student I was madly infatuated with his work and I’m still partly under his spell. Aside from his work in the permanent collection, the museum was featuring a special show of his landscapes. I lingered there for a couple of hours, my heart racing with excitement. After a brief lunch I explored the terrific symbolist painters, then the floor of the museum devoted to the Biedermeier painters. These charming genre paintings and pretty portraits could barely hold my attention after the excitement of the later work, so I walked through quickly.
Back on the street I was collared by a friendly and personable Greek souvenir shop owner who inveigled me into his shop. Once in, he tried every possible ploy -- short of poking a gun in my ribs -- to sell me a ludicrously expensive silk scarf. A ladies’ scarf, for heaven’s sake. I extricated myself as politely as I could but with great difficulty. I do not respond to the old hard sell, whether from salesmen or Scientologists.
It was snowing softly, but I continued on. I didn’t want to leave the city without seeing both the Secession Building and the Wagner Apartments, three superb examples of the Secession style. Between them lay the Naschmarkt, blocks and blocks of restaurants and bars and stands sellings all kinds of foodstuffs.
Dinner was at Figlmüller’s, famed for its wienerschnitzel “big as the plate.” It was indeed, and the mound of potatoes served with it was as delicious as the veal. My waiter may have looked like Erich von Stroheim, but he slowly warmed up and by the end of the meal was as friendly as he was efficient.
On my first night in town I knew which play I wanted to see, The Cole Porter Story at the Kammer Oper. I had no idea what to expect besides a few Porter songs, but it was one of the best evenings I’ve spent in a theatre in all my time in Europe. Besides Porter himself, there are four characters: his secretary, valet, masseur (and sometime lover) and his agent. There’s hardly a plot at all, but it had more meat to it than a mere revue. There were enough songs to satisfy even this Cole Porter fanatic. All were extremely well done and performed in English or German or both. Oddly enough, two of the performers were from Montana, which I would hardly have suspected to be a stronghold of the Porter cult.

December 18
I had to return to the Secession Building, that quirky, cabbage-domed temple to modern art. In the basement is one of Klimt’s oddest and most endearing works, the Beethoven Frieze. It’s supposedly based on the composer’s Ninth Symphony, though nobody has explained to my satisfaction what the huge gorilla in the central panel means. Likewise the fat topless woman with pendulous dugs. I could only marvel at the technical proficiency and sheer artistic excitement of the work. The rest of the gallery was filled with exhibits by three contemporary artists, none of whom seemed to me even remotely interesting.
Lunch was a fine chicken chop suey at a glossy pan-Asian place nearby. I did some window shopping on Mariahilfenstrasse, then took in a showing of the new Harry Potter movie. Pure delight, like the books.
While looking for a restaurant for dinner in the Jewish District I discovered a great bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, featuring only books in English. If I lived in Vienna, this would be my second home.

December 19
After checking out and leaving my bags, I took the train to the neighborhood of the Liechtenstein Palace, where the modern art museum was supposed to be. It wasn’t. Wandering into the palace, I saw at once it was being refurbished. I stopped to ask a plump, exquisitely pretty blonde where I’d gone wrong.
Kristina Nietz-Parker, originally from Belgium, is the public relations manager for the Wiener Residenzorchester. She is THE most delightful person I met in Vienna. My question turned into a ten-minute conversation about visiting Europe in general and Vienna in particular. Midway, a young man stopped to ask her a question and as matter of course kissed her in the Viennese style, three times on the cheeks. “That’s one of the things I like most about this city,” she purred, “getting kissed all day.”
Kristina told me where the new museum is located and gave me her card, telling me to call her the next time I’m in town. She gave me a smile of such celestial sunniness that I had no choice but to say goodbye to her Viennese-style myself. Then I reluctantly left her to her business and moved on.
Fifteen minutes after leaving Kristina, the sun came out. I walked past Freud’s house and then to the city hall, the soaring gothic Neues Rathaus. The grandest of all the Christmas markets I’ve seen in Europe was spread out before it, filled with blissfully happy, laughing children and their adults. It was so pleasurable I stayed for an hour.
The new Modern Art Museum was a mixed bag, but the collection of late 20th century painting on the top floor was itself worth the admission. Outside I discovered that the new Leopold Museum was next door. This would have been a far better choice, but now I suppose I have another reason to return to Vienna.
I had a very late lunch, and it was getting dark when I got out. The Staadpark was a too-late discovery and I could barely sample it – with its worshipful monuments to Schubert and Johann Strauss -- before I had to pick up my bags and race for my train. I’d covered more ground than on any other day, and I almost hated to leave.
But it was lovely to get back to Prague.

December 22
Before I left for Prague in October, my old friends Peter and David invited me to Wales for Christmas, providing me with a welcome taste of domesticity as a late addition to this great trip abroad.
David was to pick me up at the Manchester airport but just as my plane came in, so did another from Islamabad. In the customs line I found myself in a vast crowd of weary Pakistanis, creeping along at a snail-like pace toward the customs officials. Since they had undoubtedly been flying longer than I had, I felt I could hardly complain. But still I chafed, impatient to see my dear friend again. I almost leaped into the air with joy when I saw him in the crowd at the gate.
This was my first chance to see the inside of the house they found in May. This pleasant brick house on a winding street in Wrexham is the largest space they’ve lived in since I’ve known them. A sitting room, dining area and kitchen downstairs are in relatively good shape. But one room in the middle is still a catch-all, knee-deep in unpacked bags and boxes from the recent move. Upstairs are three bedrooms, a bath and a snug computer room. A garden extends far, far behind the house, and features a small greenhouse.
That evening after dinner Lee Hassett came over. My enthusiasm over Barbados last March caught fire with Lee and David; we immediately began laying the ground for a holiday together next spring.

December 23
The pantomime which opens this evening was lacking two or three costumes for the finale. I rode with Peter over the Yorkshire moors to a costumier’s in Leeds. A thick fog made finding them difficult but Peter finally called on his cell phone for directions. Homburg’s is a huge storehouse of sumptuous costumes from all periods. A dozen other customers were prowling through the goodies when we arrived. I complimented a dashing young knight on his armor while Peter stalked through the collection avidly looking for what he needed. Afterward we stopped for lunch in the Yorkshire Playhouse and then came home.

December 24, Christmas Eve
Peter had to work today so I rode with him to Chester. This was a happy opportunity to spend the day walking through one of the most liveable, lovable cities I know. Chester is just as beautiful in winter as it is in May. The best of what Americans picture when we dream of Merrie England is right here; I like London only slightly better.
Peter and I had lunch with Glyn, a friend from work, at a little tea shop. I was served a gargantuan brie and tomato Welsh rarebit -- delicious, but a symphony in cholesterol. Later in the afternoon I met Peter back at the car; we picked up John Rowley at the rail station and drove home.
When we arrived, Fred Evans was there, chatting with David. Fred really is quite enjoyable when taken in small doses but after we traveled together through Spain two years ago, David can barely abide him. At one point Fred coyly mentioned that someone recently told him he looks like Sean Connery. True, Fred is egg-bald and has dark eyebrows but there the resemblance ends abruptly. I could see that David was holding down a tidal wave of laughter but we contained ourselves till Fred left.
December 25, my first English Christmas
In the morning, Peter took John to the train before I got up and David left early to spend the day with his family. On Peter’s return we drove by to pick up his mother Joyce. She was to be our hostess for Christmas lunch at a country inn near the Shropshire border, the Hanmer Arms.
The rest of Peter’s family were already there: his sister Maureen, her husband Neil and sons Andrew and Nicholas. The latter in particular is growing swiftly and graciously into adulthood. This shy kid I last saw in May had in a mere six months grown four inches and acquired a patina of unexpected charm. Peter adores his nephews and is hugely gratified that they’ve both decided to work in theatre.
The lunch was sublime. I had a smoked salmon and horseradish cheesecake followed by turkey and dressing. The only disappointment was dessert. My first plum pudding was served in a slab, highly flavorful but served with neither the flaming brandy nor the traditional sprig of holly I’d hoped for. We toasted the season in wine and pulled our Christmas crackers, and if Tiny Tim didn’t come in on Bob Cratchit’s shoulders blessing us all, it was still a charming English Christmas.
We returned to Peter’s house for the traditional exchange of gifts. Joyce had made a trifle, one of my favorite sweets. At nightfall Maureen and her family left.

December 26
David had long before planned a trip to Edinburgh with friends so in the morning Peter drove him to the train. While Peter went to Manchester to pick up John again, I took a long hike through the neighborhood and beyond, stopping at the local pub for lunch. Acton Park is beautiful, bright and modern but still firmly rooted in tradition. I seated myself next to the fireplace and settled in for a long leisurely lunch.
In the evening we watched a couple of movies on TV. Peter had thrown together a delectable chicken pot-au-feu and as a special treat, another Christmas pudding. This one was served in the traditional mound, set alight, and bursting with emphatic flavor. A Christmas pudding shares a few ingredients with the much-despised American fruitcake, but it’s richer, sweeter, darker, less dense, and drenched in brandy.
Phil Edwards came over later but didn’t stay long. But I knew I’d be seeing him the following evening.

December 27
At around 1:00 Peter dropped me in downtown Wrexham and I strolled around the shops for an hour before walking over to Heini and Rommi Przbram’s. These dear old friends don’t change, they mature -- like a great wine. Small talk is alien to Heini and Rommi; what they relish is good, substantial conversation; we thoroughly chewed over a variety of meaty topics: recent politics, twentieth century history, literature, opera, and Vienna, Heini’s hometown. He was thrilled that I’d recently been there. At half past three Sean Connery – I mean Fred – arrived, and we chatted till around six. Fred took me back home and we talked about music. Fred is the ultimate opera buff and is wildly enthusiastic about American show music.
Peter came by for me and drove me to the Stiwt Theatre, in Rhos, for my very first Christmas pantomime, Dick Whittington. This elegant belle epoque theatre occupies a queenly prominence in the middle of a tiny, depressed village. It’s a model of what a theatre should be: acres of sidestage, plenty of dressing rooms, a fine theatre bar. We went down into the dressing rooms where I met some of my friends from last May’s production of The Sound of Music. John Lindop, Steve Davies, Natasha Millar, Jenny Jackson, and Mark Shenton. Phil is in the show, too. All were in the process of getting into makeup. Steve, who directed the spring show, was got up as King Rat, in outrageous glitter-queen makeup and a black bouffant duck’s-ass haircut, a la Elvis.
A Christmas pantomime is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. American pantomime is silent, but in the UK this form of theatre is anything but. Its hallmarks are intentionally bad jokes, topical humor, and borderline-bawdy low comedy. The inserted songs are from musicals, both stage and screen, with a sprinkling of fifties rock and roll. Pantos, steeped in tradition, are generally based on fairy tales or English folklore.
The scenery is hired from a company, and this one had about a dozen highly colorful settings, from London to the palace of the Sultan of Morocco. There was even an underwater ballet.
Pantos prominently feature a Dame, a man in elaborate drag, his costumes changing in every scene, going further and further over the top. Dick Whittington‘s Dame was John Lindop, playing Sarah the Cook. The Principal Boy, usually played by a girl, was this time played by a young man. Natasha, who shone so brightly in The Sound of Music, was the show’s Principal Girl.
Audience participation is de riguer. This involves singing along and shouting instructions to the players on cue (“Wake up, Jack!”, “Hello, Dick!”). Adults, I suspect, find this tiresome but the children in the audience certainly did not. Neither did a certain Yankee visitor, who shouted and honked and sang along with all the rest.
It was all perfectly delightful and we met in the bar afterward for a short party, another cherished custom. When we got home, Peter said to John, “You should have come.” John, decidedly not a traditionalist, growled, “Nyaa… childish…” Of course he’s right, and that’s part of what makes it worth cherishing. It is aimed squarely at children. The adults, if they’re seeing it properly, return to childhood for a brief evening. Personally, I find it absolutely vital to keep in touch with my inner ten-year-old.
High-profile professional pantos featuring great stage stars are slowly dying off. Partly this is due to changing times, partly to television and more technologically advanced forms of entertainment. But the form lives on in amateur groups and in the provincial cities and towns where tradition is more carefully nurtured. Some great old traditions are worth preserving.

December 28
Peter drove me over to Jenny Glover’s for lunch. Since they’ve had a major falling-out, he did not come in. Jenny is still very much her old self, though practically whiteheaded and losing hair by the handful. She is diabetic and doesn’t take the care of herself that she should. Presently we were joined by her mother. Taking care of Jenny after her recent operation for cataracts has, according to Heini and Rommi, given her mother a new lease on life. I spent most of the afternoon there, then walked back home. It’s about a forty-minute hike and very enjoyable. And necessary, as I’ve been eating entirely too well.
When I arrived I found the video of Moulin Rouge ready for me in the VCR. As it finished, Peter arrived and we walked to Steve Davies’s house for a cast party. I had a splendid time because I knew so many people there. The ones I didn’t know didn’t stay strangers for long, due to an epic game of charades. As I was leaving, Steve and Andrew hinted that they might be coming to Barbados with us!

December 29
My flight was uneventful, a blessing in these parlous times. As I left my English friends below the clouds I had a sharp stab of almost primitive homesickness for Boston. But when the airport limo dropped me off in my Prague neighborhood I cheered up at once. This is home, too.

January 1, 2003
The raucous public celebrations of New Year’s Eve aren’t really my particular tango. Since I knew nobody in town well enough to party with, I burrowed in, to spend the evening quietly reflecting on this last remarkable year.
Shortly before midnight I found I couldn’t resist the urge to celebrate. All manner of noise was coming from the Charles Bridge, not the least of which was the insistent pop of fireworks. So I grabbed my camera and joined the thousands already on the bridge. It was the bitterest cold of the season so far, and my frostbitten fingers were soon aching with cold. Every few minutes I had to stop shooting and rub them back into warmth. The bridge was slick with spilled champagne. Drunken revelers were setting off explosives every few feet; I wondered how many emergencies the city’s hospitals were prepared to handle. At one point a cone of fire at my feet began to sputter erratically. Everyone around it started backing away – wisely – for it began shooting off in all directions, a fountain of flame. This I took as a sign to retire from the field.
Not a single one of my shots came out, but I was glad I went outside anyway.

January 4
I was familiar with Janacek’s The Cunning Little Vixen only through an orchestral suite. The production I saw tonight at the National is a new one, having premiered only a week ago. My ticket was for the matinee, a fine seat at the end of the eighth row. The only distraction was a minor one, a five-year-old boy next to me wriggling with impatience on his father’s lap. In spite of all its frolicsome animal characters, The Cunning Little Vixen is not really for children.
This lush opera, melodic yet dissonant, has less sung music than most. Dance episodes and orchestral interludes hold equal prominence. It’s the very essence of modern opera, light years ahead of what many of the composer’s contemporaries were doing. The Cunning Little Vixen is probably the first opera based on a comic strip -- and surely the only one featuring a duo of a frog and his grandson! Artistically, this is the most daring and innovative production I’ve seen in Prague so far. The set is mimimalist in its way, but shimmering with light and color. Most of the playing area takes place on a large revolving disc, dramatically tilted. Hanging above is a diaphanous silken bag the size of a circus tent. Seven columns, also in silk, descend from this bag, suggesting a forest of trees. (Soon the spirits of the forest rise into the columns out of the holes in the disc and undulate about the stage.) A few changing pieces of scenery and a plain backdrop for lighting effects complete the design. The lighting is almost a character in itself, subtly evoking the change of seasons.
The costumes were just as fanciful and engaging as the set. I especially liked the forester’s wife’s hens: the female chorus wear short, puffy crinolines and feathered bathing caps with pink combs. The vixen wasn’t tricked out in ears and foxtail as one might expect, but in ankle boots and a dress of burnt orange velvet. At one memorable point, a ghostly stag (two men in a stag suit on stilts!) silently stalked across for no discernible reason.
There were two emotional high points. Act Two culminates in the vixen’s wedding to her fox, an incandescent blaze of color, joyous music and glittering stage effects. Large white butterflies on poles are waved about, as if the whole animal world were celebrating the nuptials. The finale was rich and poignant, the music lifting the audience into something approaching rapture.
The singing was uniformly excellent, but it was the production as a whole that I’ll remember. This one is going to be hard to top.

January 5
I’ve never been a huge fan of the classical ballet but this evening I attended the National Theatre’s production of The Nutcracker. I hadn’t seen it since my Navy days back in Washington. I had the exact same seat as yesterday. The sets for this production seem to be a shabby relic of the Brezhnev era. Clara was danced by an exquisite doll-like girl with a nose about the size of an aspirin tablet. The Nutcracker Prince was your typical ballet male lead, a too-pretty blond with a pasteboard smile. Just as typically he had apparently stuffed three days’ laundry into the front of his dance belt. Can anyone tell me why ballerinas are always flatchested and their partners hung like King Kong?

January 9
Today I braved the cold to walk over to Holesovice for a final visit to the Centre for Modern and Contemporary Art.
This time I wisely bought a ticket for only the first two floors and was able to stroll about looking primarily at what pleased me on the previous visit. In addition there were some new installations and an exhibit of photos by Josef Koudelka.
The first group were Koudelka’s threatre work, his chief claim to fame, then a series of harrowing shots of the Russian tanks rolling into Wenceslas Square in 1968. Where his theatrical photos were dreamy and imaginative, this photojournalism was stark, clear-eyed and scary. The largest part of the exhibit was comprised of his studies of Slovenian Gypsies. The shots of these debased people living in squalor were more depressing than enlightening. Nowhere did I see in their faces any dignity, beauty, or the color which we traditionally associate with Gypsy life.
I barely made it through the two floors. My left knee was shrieking with agony, the worst pain I’ve endured yet. The right knee hurt, too, from bearing the redistributed weight. But as I wearily stumped homeward across the frozen city I consoled myself with the thought that in less than a week I’ll be driving my own car again. Halfway home I had an inspiration: a teashop I’d never been to was on the way.
Siva may be the best one yet. The street level floor is for coffee devotees; thirty steep steps into the cellar is the realm of the tea-lover. I ordered a pot of Mysterious Island and settled into a comfortable wicker chair to survey my surroundings. This cavern of pleasure has a high barrel ceiling of rough stone. Oriental rugs and Indian bedspreads are hung about. A table of young men in the corner were sipping tea and drawing smoke from a hookah. It’s actually an item on the menu, offered with a variety of flavored tobaccos. It reminded me of the mercifully brief period in my first year of college when I took this up myself. (I gave up the hookah in record time, and it spoiled tobacco for me for life -- thank heaven.)

January 10
Tonight I went to my eighth and last opera in Prague, and my first one at the State Opera house. Just walking into the theatre was worth the price of admission. It’s half again the size of the National Theatre, a rococo fantasia in whipped cream and gold filigree. My seat in the middle of the fourth row gave me a good view of both the house and the stage. While white and gold are the predominant colors, the boxes are gilt chambers with satin walls in soft burgundy, as suitable for discreet seduction as for watching an opera.
Tonight’s offering was Verdi’s Nabucco, another I’d never seen before. It’s early Verdi, with his characteristic oom-pah-pah dotted rhythms, a certified guilty pleasure. The opera is set largely in Babylon so the set design was over the top and utterly delicious. For the fourth or fifth time here in Prague I longed to design sets for an opera myself.
The singing was spotty, the women generally better than the men. Zaccaria was sung by Jiri Sulzenko. It wasn’t until the last scene that I realized that this dignified old figure was the same rolypoly sprite who’d sung the charming Leporello in Don Giovanni.
But from her first entrance the stage was firmly in the grip of Agathe Kania, playing the evil usurping daughter Abigaille. She swooped onto the stage dripping with silver lamé and rubies, a wild cascade of bright red curls floating down her back. From that moment I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Her rich coloratura voice matched her shimmering appearance. Lustily chewing up everything in sight, she was Brunnhilde, Ethel Merman, Medea, Baby Jane Hudson and a girl’s hockey team all rolled into one. When she strode on in Act Three, followed by a bright red train big enough to completely carpet my last apartment, the game was up. Verdi might just as well have rubbed the name of Nabucco off the title page and called the thing Abigaille.

January 13
Tomorrow afternoon at 4:35 I fly away. For the last several days I have been walking around the city savoring its beauty for the last time. And I’ve been saying goodbye to a few people. I’ve known few of them by name but they’ve still been bright threads in the fabric of my life here. Jan and Nonie’s assistant Hanka Hromadova has been a warm presence, friendly and helpful. I’ll miss the crews behind the counter at Bohemia Bagel and Video Express, yes, even the pale and distant receptionist at the British Council. Today when I told her I was going home she seemed crestfallen, actually sorry that I won’t be returning, and wished me a happy trip. I’d thought she didn’t like me. Apparently it was only shyness.
How can a man come to a strange city, explore it avidly for three months -- and still feel he has barely scratched the surface? The more familiar Prague becomes, the greater is its capacity to surprise. Even today on my last tour through the Old Quarter I was still stumbling across new delights. The house where I’ve been staying quickly became like home but it’s the city outside my windows that has bewitched me.
True, there have been a few down sides to my sojourn here. It would have been convenient to have a car. Everyone but suckling babes seems to smoke. People could be friendlier, though I’m told this guardedness is a holdover from the years of soviet occupation. And the weather has been bone-chilling for the last seven weeks. But immersing myself in an exotic and unfamiliar city has made such minor flaws irrelevant.
And what aspects of this city have charmed me the most? The extravagant wealth of ornament on every surface. The ready availability of music. The variety of fine cuisine from every nation, and at eye-poppingly low prices. The teashops. The Charles Bridge. The unearthly view of the castle at night. And yes, the sheer newness of it all.
Tomorrow I will soar into the sky with a high heart, eager to get back to Boston to embrace my friends and take up the reins of my life again. But tonight I am very sad.

January 14
This morning the sky was crisp and clear and the temperature had skyrocketed up to the forties. Since I didn’t have to leave the city till one o’clock, I indulged myself in a few goodbyes: the charming young manager of Bohemia Bagel, my favorite clerk at Video Express, and the staff of El Centro. I even met Nonie’s friend Jennifer walking across the Charles Bridge.
I locked up the apartment, schlepped my unwieldy bags down the stairway and found the taxi already waiting. The ride out to the airport was a sad one, but at least the sun gilding the old buildings was cheering. Prague had never looked prettier.
And I was off.

Note: (April 17, 2008) Sadly, I just read online that Roy Breimon, Nonie’s painter friend, was murdered in August 2004, a year and half after I met him. He was found bound and gagged in his apartment, presumably by a male hustler.

SHAMELESS! A Sensualist Experiences Paris

2008-07-21T15:18:00.000-07:00

Friday, January 12
Paris lay hidden under clouds and I saw nothing till we bumped onto the runway of Charles de Gaulle Airport. On the ground, I was processed quickly. After a few minutes of uncertainty I was directed to the shuttle bus to the RER train terminal. My plan was to go to the Gare du Nord, then catch the Metro to the St. Michel stop. Two men sitting across from me informed me I didn’t have to change: the train went on to stop at St. Michel.
At St. Michel I was lucky enough to take the wrong exit. Turning around to get my bearings I got my first sight of Paris: Notre Dame Cathedral, the spiritual and geographical center of the city. I felt a stab of pure, unadulterated happiness. The cathedral was bigger than I’d expected, and much more beautiful. Blinking back tears (it was the most magnificent introduction to Paris imaginable and I’m an easy cry), I crossed the Quai St. Michel and walked the few steps to the Rue de la Huchette. This narrow street, running parallel to the Seine, is lined mostly with small eating establishments. It was only ten o’clock and nothing was open yet. The street was wet from a recent shower, but during my stay it neither rained nor snowed. I found the Hôtel du Mont Blanc near the end of the street, yards from the St. Michel stop.
I couldn’t check in till noon, but I knew exactly how to fill the time. Leaving my bags I returned to the Île de la Cité. The Place du Parvis stretches before Notre Dame. It is ground zero in Paris, the point from which all distances in France are measured. A huge equestrian statue of Charlemagne, who united Christian Europe, stands between the church and the river.
The interior of the church is equal to the grandeur of its façade, the central nave rising to a superlatively groined ceiling. The cathedral, the site of state funerals and coronations of the kings of France, is also where Napoleon, in a supreme act of amour-propre, crowned himself Emperor. Only a decade before that, Notre Dame had been stripped of its religious trappings by blood-crazed revolutionaries and re-dedicated as a “temple to reason.” It was unreasonable to expect that this would last long; the cathedral’s architecture is too potent an expression of religious faith.
Outside, I re-entered the church on its north side, climbing the 387 steps to the outside gallery running around the towers: the domain of the gargoyles. From this gallery I got my first sight of the Eiffel Tower, rising in the misty distance beyond the bend of the river, at the end of the Champs de Mars. An iron grill has been placed around the gargoyles’ gallery to prevent potential suicides from hurling themselves into eternity. They didn’t need to worry about me; I gingerly worked my way around the edge in great fear and trembling. This cathedral has stood for eight centuries, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t tumble to the ground at any moment. Within the south tower is the huge Emmanuel bell, supposedly the one Quasimodo rang with such joyous abandon. An attendant was perched on an eave beside the bell, reading a novel. She said the Emmanuel is now rung only a few times a year. Hunchbacks are apparently no longer employed; the bell is rung by machinery, activated by a churchman pushing a button.
Returning to terra firma, I went around to the rear of the cathedral to see the famous flying buttresses. The small park behind the cathedral, dedicated to Pope John XXIII, was my first introduction to the odd Parisian habit of squaring off trees by pruning their branches on tops and sides. Beyond the park gate, a small footbridge leads to the Île St. Louis.
This elegant little island, formerly the Île des Vaches (the island of cows) was my favorite part of the city — apart from the museums. I walked up the Rue St. Louis en l’Île looking into the shop windows. At Cacao et Chocolat I had my first food in Paris, a macarin chocolat framboise. Translation: chocolate raspberry macaroon. This leaden phrase barely does it justice. The two plump halves are stuck together like an oreo, but the crunchy crust is filled with soft chocolate delicately flavored with raspberry. I devoured it with all the gusto of a ravenous lion dispatching a zebra, with hardly a thought of caloric responsibility.
At the southeast end of the island is a park, the Square Barye, dedicated to a nineteenth century sculptor of animals. His monument is flanked by two burly naked youths, each embracing a small boy and with one foot on the head of an agonized beast. (I thought it best not to contemplate the psychological implications of that.) At this point I crossed the Pont de Sully back onto the Rive Gauche and up the Boulevard St. Germain toward my hotel.
I didn’t expect much of my room. I had reserved a single at the lowest rate, a mere $49 a night. But room 51 was a pleasant surprise, clean, modern and neat, w.c. and shower included. True, it was about as wide as my bathroom at home and only a couple of feet longer, but I would only be here to sleep.
Satisfying as the macarin chocolat framboise had been, hunger quickly reasserted itself. I wasn’t ready to sit down to a meal yet; I was too eager to start my first adventure, a once-over-lightly walk of the city — as much of it as I could cover. At an establishment on the corner, the Gargantua, I ordered a croque monsieur, ham and grated cheese melted on toast, rich and satisfying. With this I walked across Boulevard St. Michel and discovered one of the prettiest squares in Paris, the Place de St. Andre des Arts. I walked down Rue de St. Andre des Arts for some blocks and then turned toward the river and crossed the lacy iron Pont des Arts. The Louvre lay on the other side, a city in itself. Already footsore, I walked through the first courtyard and through an arch to I.M. Pei’s pyramid.
I’ve never liked this new structure in photos; its glass and steel starkness seems to work against the museum’s elegant Renaissance façade. But I changed my mind immediately; it looks perfectly right, almost inevitable. The plaza, the Cour Napoleon, was almost deserted, for the sky was leaden and a bone-chilling wind was blowing across the Tuileries. I’d planned to tour the Louvre later, so now I walked under the Arc du Carrousel into the Tuileries Gardens.
Trying to ignore the raw weather I walked the length of the park toward the Place de la Concorde. There were more people in the gardens than I expected: armies of children around the fountains, longing for the warm days when they could sail their toy boats; nursemaids; Ruandan students brandishing petitions. Through the formal gardens eighteen voluptuous female nudes by Maillol are spaced like bronze sentries, smiling and perky-nippled and impervious to the cold. Off to the side was a brightly lit carousel, the first of many I would see throughout the city.
The Place de la Concorde, occupied on its southeast side by an enormous ferris wheel, is little more than a whirl of traffic around a central obelisk and two fountains. It’s hard to imagine this bland open space, this impersonal square, as the slaughterhouse of the French Revolution, where the guillotine parted up to 1,343 heads from 1,343 bodies (Figures vary, but whatever the final count, that’s a lot of blood to be spilled in one place). I dodged traffic to get across, then walked along the Quai des Tuileries to the Pont Alexandre III.
This bridge, bristling with nymphs and cherubs and river gods, is an exuberant expression of the Art Nouveau style, and is dedicated to the Russian czar who laid the foundation stone in 1896. The four postilions at each end are surmounted with heroic figures driving winged horses, brilliant with gilt. This is easily Paris’s most endearing bridge, the pleasure principle transmuted into stone and iron. In full sunlight it must be dazzling. Under gray skies it is still the most graceful bridge I’ve ever seen.
Back on the Left Bank, I walked up Rue St. Dominique toward the Eiffel Tower. At a tobacconist’s, I got change and found the telephone in back. I’d been given the name and number of Susan Day, a friend of my friend Martha Mayne. I called her at her office. The phone kept gobbling up my 2-franc coins, forcing me to keep redialing. We agreed to meet the following evening at one of the great Left Bank cafés, Les Deux Magots. I babbled a description of myself just as the phone ate my last coin and went dead.
All the way up the curving Rue St. Dominique I kept glimpsing the Eiffel Tower. At Place du General Gouraud I walked halfway across the Parc du Champs de Mars to view it properly. It looks much higher than its 1,046 feet, and more beautiful, more ethereal than I’d dared hope. I walked to the circular space directly beneath it, the wind whipping around me. This was an ideal spot to appreciate its strength and grace but it was insupportably cold. The Tower might as well have been a funnel, fiendishly designed to catch the wind off the North Sea and pump it into Paris. At the eastern foot I bought a ticket to ascend the lift. Because of repair work on the top one can only go to the second level, but it was probably just as well. My acrophobia was severe enough already. There are two elevators, piggybacked. Because it was mid-winter, there was only a short wait. We creaked our way to the second level and disembarked. The winds were stronger up here, and colder, but I mastered my nerves long enough to take a few pictures. Taking the elevator down to the first level café, I had a most welcome coffee and a creamy apple tartlet.
Back on earth I thought it might be best to take the Metro back to the Latin Quarter. Assuming (wrongly) that the Metro stop was in the direction of the river, I went down to the Seine embankment, here called the Quai Branly. The touring boats called the Bateaux Mouches were running; it seemed a better idea to take a boat back. Unfortunately, all the boats returned to this point without stopping but I decided to take a tour anyway. This was clearly the best way to see the river, of which Parisians are justifiably proud. Only in Venice is the major waterway so cherished a part of the city. The tour, all the way to the Île St. Louis and back, was enjoyable; the ride back was magical. Dusk was falling quickly and lights were coming on all over the city. When we returned to the Quai Branly, the Eiffel Tower was completely lit, a fretwork of gold lace against the royal blue sky. Additional sparkle came from a carousel at the foot of the tower. Another turned merrily on the Trocadero side of the bridge.
I reluctantly left the neighborhood, wending my way back slowly. At the Place du General Gouraud I turned around to get another look at the tower; it was crackling with sparklers. No still photo could capture this effect so I didn’t try.
The Rue St. Dominique is a great shopping street, and I walked back toward my hotel as slowly as I could. I fell in love with Rue Clerc, a street of outdoor fruit and vegetable markets and pastry shops. Crossing the Esplanade des Invalides, I was nearly freeze-dried, and once across, I kept losing my way back. It didn’t matter: Paris is a city in which it is an advantage to be lost, and I soon had my reward.
Just off the Boulevard St. Germain, I turned off onto Rue de l’Echaude, a street full of little restaurants, all highly competitive and all equally tempting. I strolled along comparing their chalked menu-boards, looking for a selection that pleased me. I had only one requirement: my restaurant of choice must offer tarte Tatin for dessert. Finally I found just what I was looking for.
La Citrouille is a simple, homely, countrified place with bare beams and soft lighting, as befitting its simple, homely country name: The Pumpkin. My first waiter in Paris was like all the others in one important respect: he was friendly and courteous and most important, endlessly tactful toward my uncertain attempts to order in French.
I began my meal the best way I knew how, with a plate of escargots bourgogne and a carafe of Côtes du Rhone. My snails were swimming in heavenly garlic-and-parsley butter, and I guiltily admit that after they had been eaten I sopped up the excess garlic butter with scraps of bread. The list of main courses was an attractive one, but I couldn’t resist the special of the day. After all, how often does one find kangaroo on a menu? It came in round slices, which I presumed to be sections of tail, served in a sauce au poivre. It was tasty enough, but I’m not burning to try it again.
Ah, but tarte Tatin! This is a kind of culinary miracle, achieving its effects with utter simplicity: nothing but apples, butter and sugar cooked down to a rich caramel, topped with pastry crust and inverted onto a platter. My generous slice was served with a dollop of creme fraîche, and it was celestial. After the meal I stepped outside and took a deep breath, thankful simply to have tastebuds, filled with bonhomie and gratitude to the gods who made Paris a paradise for diners.
And yet...
I blush to report that on the way back to the hotel I couldn’t resist stopping at one of the hundreds of little stands found all over Paris, serving crepes with savory and sweet fillings. I had a crepe au sucre, a thin crepe lightly buttered and sprinkled with sugar, folded over into sixths and served in a paper cone.
At ten o’clock I slid into bed. It was firm and warm and I was asleep in seconds.

Saturday, January 13
Today the sun was out and the sky above Paris was a bright sapphire blue. On Rue St. Andre des Arts I found a small patisserie about the size of my hotel room. A lovely young blonde girl served me a café noir and a warm croissant au Suisse, filled with melting chocolate chips. After this little gustatory orgy, I walked up the Rue de Seine to a pleasant pocket park in the shadow of the Institut de France. The tidy lawn was dominated by a bust of one of my early heroes, Voltaire. Someone, perhaps an enemy of Reason, had chipped off a substantial portion of his nose, giving the philosopher an odd resemblance to the actor Edmund Gwenn. Along the Quai Malaquais and the Quai Voltaire were dozens of antique shops and art galleries, but none were open yet. There were several art supply shops, too; this was the neighborhood of the Ecole Nationale Superieure des Beaux Arts. In the next block was my goal: the Musee d’Orsay.
A former train station, the museum is immense, a magnificent Belle Epoque pile of French gloire et luxe. The interior is so spacious and light it might have been designed expressly as a museum. The central hall is a long barrel vault displaying large pieces of 19th century sculpture. These pieces are the perfect expression of the academic French style, fusty and romantic and admirable -- but doomed. The style would soon be blasted to smithereens by the explosion whose fuse was lit by the Impressionists. At the far end of the hall was an enormous cutaway view of the Paris Opera House, the masterpiece of Charles Garnier. In front of this cutaway is a glass floor with an elaborate model of the Opera neighborhood below, blocks and blocks of the city. An adjacent exhibit shows models of recent sets, deliciously detailed miniatures throbbing with life. One almost expects to hear tiny voices pumping away at Verdi and Puccini and Gounod.
On the upper floor was a special exhibit on the life and work of Vaclav Nijinsky, whose greatest dancing roles were first seen in Paris. The exhibit begins with paintings and photos of his roles, programs and cartoons. And his original costumes. There are sculptures, too, including a superb nude by Maillol, depicting Nijinsky as very well set up indeed. In the photos his bizarre beauty and large, expressive eyes explain much of his attraction to a generation of balletomanes. He was a gorgeous wild animal, but in those eyes one can clearly see his coming madness.
The exhibit ends in a sad, final gallery. Here are the dancer’s drawings, made in his last decades in a Swiss sanitarium. These pathetic, crabbed crayon works, geometric exercises, circles within circles within squares, show the disintegration of his mind as it turns inward. A few faces emerge tentatively from the maze, as if reason were shyly attempting to assert itself. As it turned out, I entered here, thereby seeing the Nijinsky exhibit backwards. Seeing his life and work in reverse was almost like witnessing a free and ardent spirit breaking out of the shell of insanity.
In the next gallery were the two great book-end impressionists, Bonnard and Vuillard, who stand rather outside the movement because of their domestic focus. These two also share uncertain draftsmanship, achieving their effects almost entirely by vibrant experiments in color.
At the end of the second floor galleries I found the museum restaurant -- just as I was ready for lunch. I was seated beside a cool green palm. Gods, nymphs, and the doves of Venus fluttered overhead in a splendid neo-rococo frieze. I had a glass of pinot grigio and the buffet de l’Inver, a selection of cold salads, poached cold salmon and whitefish, and a generous chunk of pate de campagne. I lingered over this as long as I could, trying not to whimper with pleasure, and finished with three balls of ice cream in a silver bowl, chocolate, coffee and triple-cream.
The rest of the galleries on this level housed the academic French painters, earnest and perfectly competent but not very forward-looking. One can easily see why the Impressionists swept them all away. One remarkable canvas was Jean Delville’s “School of Plato.” In this startlingly homoerotic work a young, completely dressed Plato sits in the center, surrounded by languid young men, nude and paying only the most casual attention to the master. They appear to be more interested in each other than in the teachings of Socrates. An orgy might almost erupt at any moment.
The last two galleries on this level featured Art Nouveau furniture and furnishings. Simple, graceful pieces were set among some of such fantastic invention that the eye wearied. One suite of bedroom furniture might suggest a bower of lilies, the next a huge man-eating plant. One glassed cabinet was so outrageously over-the-top, with nude figures perched about like birds of prey, that I had to stifle the impulse to laugh. By the time I got to the end I was ready for the relative sobriety of Danish modern.
The entire upper floor of the museum holds the Impressionist collection, surely one of the greatest in the world. Of this small band of artists who changed the direction of painting forever, Renoir is far from my favorite. But his Dancing at the Moulin de la Gallette is one of those paintings I’m hopeless to resist: the dappled sunlight falling on diners at table, the exquisite women flirting, the swirl of dancing figures. It’s a complex study of light, shade, and movement and at the same time a delectable portrayal of Parisians at play. One wants not merely to look at the painting, but to be in it.
I appreciate all the Impressionists, but one titan stands alone: Monet. The pinnacle of his art is the brilliant series of thirty canvases of Rouen cathedral, painted at various stages of sunlight. These are scattered all over the world; Boston’s MFA has two superb examples, but the d’Orsay has five. No other paintings bring me to the emotional pitch that these unearthly canvases do. I could have walked up and down in front of them for the duration of my vacation.
It soon became clear that I should have taken less time at lunch. As I was finishing up this floor, closing time was announced, requiring me to give short shrift to a single hallway of Gauguins and Douanier Rousseau canvases, but ultimately I managed to see most of the museum’s collection.
It was almost dark when I emerged from the d’Orsay at 5:45. Dusk is the most magical time of day anywhere, but especially so in a great city. The French call this l’heure bleu, and tonight the phrase was enchantingly apropos; the sky was blue as a peacock’s breast. I walked slowly through St. Germain des Pres, enjoying the crowds strolling the Boulevard St. Germain, the shops, the cafés, the multiplicity of bookstores. I returned to the hotel briefly to brush my teeth, and strode off to Les Deux Magots to meet Susan.
On the whole trip I never drank a single glass of champagne, but it wasn’t necessary. Susan provided much the same effect. She’s a trim and attractive Englishwoman with a distinctly Parisian gloss. We established an instantaneous rapport. The management of Les Deux Magots was unable to seat us, but we did wiggle into a small corner table at the sidewalk bar (glassed in, thank heaven). Over a couple of glasses of Sancerre we got to know each other. Susan moved to Paris in 1968, shortly after the student riots. She works for the IFA, the French Architectural Institute.
Susan knew a terrific little bistro down the street, the Petit Saint Benoît. According to Susan and others, the classic Parisian bistro is a rapidly disappearing breed, but the Petit Saint Benoît seemed to be bursting with rude good health. It’s plain and neighborhoody, very crowded, with tables close together — and everyone talking animatedly. We had to wait for about ten minutes for a table but it was worth it.
The affable waitress (she introduced herself later as Vanessa) put down a fresh white paper cover for the table, and typically, I couldn’t resist the surface: I pulled out my pen and sketched a large mustachioed man fondly regarding a small glass of red wine — which sported wings and a halo. It drew the attention of a table of Americans to our left, two Frenchmen to our right — and our waitress, who asked if she could have it. She put down another paper cover so my drawing wouldn’t get spotted with food and after dinner I floridly inscribed it to her.
We ordered a bottle of red Bordeaux and two orders of what our neighboring Frenchmen were so clearly enjoying: boulus (sea-snails) served with great gobs of homemade mayonnaise. They were an adventure of discovery for me, even better than my escargots of the night before. For the main course we both ordered the hachis parmentier, a sort of shepherd’s pie — and eventually a second bottle of Bordeaux.
My drawing was a perfect icebreaker. The Americans were friendly but being a table of four they soon returned to their own company; the two Frenchmen unofficially joined us. The man sitting next to me was a ruggedly handsome man; I could tell that Susan thought so too. His companion was — or claimed to be — one of the Bourbons, with the face of an intelligent, amiable antelope. He complimented me on my drawing and said that I would do very well in Parisian cafés, but I would do even better if I learned to speak French well, for it was the best and quickest way to really get to know the French. Point well taken. We chatted in a friendly manner over our food, but presently the talk turned to politics and our Bourbon friend sailed into a long impassioned spiel while Susan listened. Every now and then she would look over at me with widened eyes, and shrug. As the evening pressed on her shrugs seemed to get more and more Gallic.
After we settled the bill, chatted with the waitress and gave her the drawing we said our goodbyes to the two Frenchmen and I accompanied Susan to the St. Germain Metro stop.
“They were nice — I never expected to actually meet my fellow diners. But he was really giving you a lecture. Why were you giving me those wide-eyed looks?”
“Oh yes, they were very pleasant, but the man I was talking to is a fascist.”
“A fascist! A real one?”
She explained that he’s one of these men who are unable to accept the idea of democracy. A member in good standing, you might say, of the ancien régime — in feeling if not in actual fact. Apparently they’re by no means rare in France, Jean-Pierre LePen being a very public example. She told me about a man she had once worked with who always wore black. When she asked him why, he solemnly intoned, “I am in mourning for my king.” Now lets see: the last Bourbon king abdicated in 1848, which means these people have had 153 years to get used to the idea of a republic. Surely there must be a French equivalent for “get a life.”
At the St. Germain station we said goodbye and agreed to meet for lunch on Monday. She gave me directions to her office, a short walk from my hotel. Ignoring the cold wind I walked back to the hotel slowly, feasting on the brightly-lit Paris night. In spite of my very ample meal, I felt the need for a sweet. Half a block from the hotel, I stopped at one of the little sidewalk creperies and got a crepe smeared liberally with Nutella, a little pocket of ecstasy. I wandered through the narrow, twisted streets of the Latin Quarter, window-shopping and revelling in my crepe’s chocolate-hazelnuttiness. Very near my hotel I found the 12th century church of St. Julien le Pauvre, one of the oldest in Paris. A board outside advertised several musical events; if my vacation had been longer I might have attended one. The church abuts onto a small, green park dedicated to Rene Viviani, a politician unfamiliar to me. A modern free-form fountain suggesting a chianti bottle dripping with candle wax bubbled quietly in the center.
Around the corner from the church is a Paris landmark, Shakespeare and Company. Late as it was, I couldn’t resist going in. This is not Sylvia Beach’s original bookstore where Joyce and Hemingway hung out, but it would do very nicely. The lower floor is stocked with new books, the upper one with second-hand. It smelled exactly like City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco: paper and ink and the spirit of the word, which to a book-lover is the headiest perfume in the world. Venerable cats slink about, coffee was on the boil somewhere in the depths of the shop, and all was well in the city. I didn’t buy anything, but merely revelled in its essence.

Sunday, January 14
I was running dangerously low on cash but an exchange was open just around the corner. Afterward, I walked across the Pont St. Michel to the Brasserie Les Deux Palais, on the Île de la Cité. I had a hearty breakfast and continued across the island to the Right Bank, to the Place du Châtelet, an attractive square with a magnificent column rising in the center. The Théâtre du Châtelet was presenting a production of Giselle and I considered getting a ticket. But the only performances I could have seen were on my last night — inadvisable — and that very afternoon, which would have cut short my visit to the Louvre.
At the Louvre I bought my ticket and pausing only briefly to admire the pyramid from below, made a beeline for the sculpture I most wanted to see. The Nike of Samothrace dominated the top of a long stairway, just as grand and as dramatic as I’d expected. Seen in the round, Nike is astonishing in its energy and beauty; even without head or arms it has more life, more feeling of movement than any other sculpture I know. An agreeable ghost was here with me: Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face, floating down the steps in red chiffon while Fred Astaire waits below with his camera.
Off to Nike’s left is the gallery of Italian Renaissance painting, a collection that rivals even that of the Uffizi in Florence. The big draw, of course, is the Mona Lisa. There are four Leonardos hanging in the long hall before you get to her gallery, and all four are superior to that admittedly fine portrait. But they attracted only a handful of people. I was told that the Mona Lisa is always obscured by throngs of people, but fewer people were here today and I had an unobstructed view. But every brushstroke is familiar to me so I quickly moved on.
After feasting my eyes on the great Italians, I dog-legged over to the gallery of large-scale French paintings, the magnificent Delacroix, David and Gericault canvases, the quintessence of the French romantic spirit. No reproduction of Delacroix’s Death of Sardanapalus can prepare you for its power. Delacroix is the one painter who can out-Rubens Rubens. The explosion of color, light and shade on this great canvas contains enough genius to supply a host of lesser painters.
After the sight of so much throbbing flesh I was ready to augment my own. I returned to the central hall. The sun shone in full splendor through the pyramid, which glittered like the world’s largest diamond. In the Richelieu wing on the second floor is a cafeteria. I loaded my tray: a walnut roll with chevre, a small bottle of merlot, a generous slice of apple tart, and lasagna. I’d wanted the poulet Basquaise, but they had run out. It was a lot of food, but walking through a great museum does deplete one’s resources.
Most of the tables were full. I sat down beside two lovely jeunes filles du New York, who were glad of someone new to chat with in English. They were in Paris on some work-study program, soaking up French civilization until the following Friday.
The Louvre cannot be seen in one day; a week would be inadequate. I made the best of the time I had left by seeking out the few Holbeins, deep within the Richelieu wing. While in the neighborhood I meandered through the apartments of Napoleon III, arid and grand. It was pointless to try to see more, but suddenly I wanted to see as much 19th century French painting as I could. I wandered through the vast wing, my map useless, feet screaming in protest, and I never found quite what I was looking for. I did stumble onto one happy surprise: a large collection of small canvases by Corot, wonderfully slapdash oil sketches recording his travels throughout Europe, primarily Italy.
To avoid art overload, I wrapped up my visit early and took the elevator to the below-ground floor, to the collection of Greek statuary. I couldn’t leave without seeing Venus de Milo, another of the undisputed celebrities of the collection and Mona Lisa’s only real rival for the public’s attention. She stood coolly above the crowd, silently accepting the tribute of camera flashes popping all around her.
Extending from the center of the Louvre is a measureless honeycomb of underground shopping galleries. I bought a double dip cone of black currant sorbet, then spent a full fifteen minutes trying to find the subway station to take my first ride on the Metro, a short ride to the Sully-Morland station.
On my boat ride up the Seine on Friday evening, my eye had been drawn to a long white tent snaking along the Quai Henri IV, an antiques fair. Since I’ve long been looking for an antique candelabrum, I was eager to come back. I had barely two hours to browse before closing, and didn’t find what I was looking for, but it was fun anyway. My only purchase was an antique print.
I’d worked up a pretty good hunger by now. Strolling along the Quai de Montebello I glanced over the menus of the smart little restaurants and was drawn to one in particular, La Bouteille D’Or. At the foot of the menu were the magic words: tarte Tatin. But a friend of a friend had recommended the Restaurant des Beaux-Arts as having good food and friendly waiters. I didn’t have an address for it so I stopped by the hotel to consult the phonebook. It was nearby, in St. Germain des Pres, so I set out with a hearty appetite and high expectations.
Here was the address, and here was the sign — but no restaurant. The spaces had been cleaned out, and an art gallery was being installed. This was disheartening (and I would have to break the news to Lira that a favorite restaurant was now defunct), but at least I had a backup: La Bouteille D’Or.
Since it was a Sunday evening I was seated immediately. The restaurant was visually soothing, dark walnut panelling, strawberry-ice-cream pink napery, and paintings of Paris in vibrant, carnival colors. The waiter was pleasant and helpful and supremely tactful regarding my fresh onslaught on the French language. And the meal was one of the highlights of the trip.
The waiter brought me a basket of good, rough country bread and I ordered a half bottle of a red Bordeaux: Domaine des Chappelles. My first course was salade de Poulpe, mixed greens with a generous serving of cold octopus in a faultless sauce vinaigrette. The main course was poulet hongroise, twin breasts from a chicken who had clearly been a pampered only child, fed only on butter. These were dusted with paprika and baked to an unbelievable tenderness, then served on a nest of buttered noodles. I lingered over each bite as if it might be my last.
Then came the tarte Tatin. I was already transported by pleasure, so my judgement may be clouded, but this seemed better than the one I’d had at La Citrouille: firm, tart apples over a feather-light crust, the caramelized syrup as thick as honey, served slightly warm.
My dinner at La Bouteille D’Or wasn’t a mere meal, it was a gift from the gods of cuisine. I almost floated back toward the hotel, cocooned in the warmth of my newly-forged Franco-American concorde. Stopping by Shakespeare and Company again, I climbed the steep and narrow stairway to the top. In this used books section everything is jumbled together in no order at all, and I wasn’t tempted to linger.

Monday, January 15
I turned on the television for background noise during my shower. Zizi Jeanmaire was being interviewed. At almost 77, she’s rather bent, and with a perfect scythe of a nose. That said, she’s still as irrepressibly gamine as when she appeared on Broadway 47 years ago in The Girl in Pink Tights. I assume she must be something of an institution in France, given the obvious infatuation of her three young interviewers.
Walking toward Montparnasse, I stopped at La Brioche Dorée for breakfast, two large cafés noirs and a flan coco — an enormous slab of coconut tart. I settled down at the sole available table, which was near the sidewalk and whipped by cold winds. I was grateful when the girl at the counter came over to direct me to tables upstairs.
In the block before the Luxembourg Gardens, I ducked into an antiquarian bookstore to look for a French Alice in Wonderland for my collection, but without success. Right around the corner was a square named for my favorite French composer, Francis Poulenc, a mean little space with only a few naked trees, a bike rack and a tattered newsstand. The Luxembourg Gardens were frostily beautiful even in winter, and I walked up the wide promenade enjoying what little sun glimmered through the clouds. A few runners were about, and a few elder Parisians (who always cheerily returned my bonjours), but largely I was left by myself. On the other side of the park I stopped at an apothecary’s for a couple of packets of Kleenex, then wandered through Montparnasse as far as the Closerie des Lilas, the cafe where Hemingway allegedly sat for hours nursing his coffee and writing The Sun Also Rises. It was on a very attractive corner, and when the lilacs are in bloom it must be beautiful; now it was just frigid and I was grateful for my Kleenex. Turning north again, I walked back through the Luxembourg Gardens, stopping to admire and photograph the Carpeaux sculpture above the Fontaine de l’Observatoire. I also discovered I’d lost yet another lens cap.
Susan and I had agreed to meet at her office at 12:30. I found the French Architectural Institute and pushed the button as instructed. I entered a wide courtyard of a large, complex building, very old. A few dry leaves stirred around the bottom of a stairwell at the back. The stairwell seemed to lead nowhere, so I trotted off to the side of the courtyard. Here was another stairway. At the top were two ornate doors. I rung a bell and the door opened.
“Yais?” asked a tall woman in a long velvet skirt. She had a plump, bored face under a cloud of orange hair.
“Is this Susan Day’s office?”
“Suzanne Dai?”
“Isn’t this the French Architectural Institute? I’m looking for Susan Day.”
She tilted her head back and looked down her nose as if inspecting me for vermin. “This is a prrrivate residence, monsieur. The Frrrench Architectural Institute is acrrross the courtyard. Please be more careful in future.” And with that she closed the door. She was more glacial than unkind and I’m pleased to report that this was the closest thing to unfriendliness I encountered during my five days in Paris.
I went back down into the courtyard and having little choice, ran up the previous stairway. At the top was the IFA secretary who directed me to a building in back where Susan was working.
When I told Susan about my encounter with the woman she told me I had stumbled into the apartments of the Principessa di Rothschild, of the Italian branch of the family. That explained the richness of the furnishings I’d glimpsed. Susan thought I’d been greeted by the maid, or perhaps the children’s governess.
We walked down the block to the Palais du Luxembourg, then down the Rue di Medicis to a favorite place of Susan’s, the Café Rostand. We started with a glass of red Bordeaux. Susan had a simple omelet; I ordered a bowl of onion soup gratinée and a quiche lorraine. This was the best I may ever have had, a huge slice chock-full of large chunks of ham. Susan told me all about her life in Paris and her travails with her neighbors, a slovenly and volatile clan. I promised to send her a copy of this journal.
I could easily have spent the rest of the day chatting with Susan, but this was the middle of her work day, so I pressed on. Back at her office she gave me a mailing tube for my old print and left me some parting advice. I’d told her about my wish to find an ornate, many-branched candelabrum, and she advised me to go find one of the antiques markets, that it would certainly be worth my trouble. My friend Nancye had told me about the Marché aux Puces near the Porte de Clignancourt, which would entail another Metro ride. My guidebook said that it was open on Mondays too, so I ventured the ride.
The Porte de Clignancourt was the furthest I traveled outside the heart of the city, into a messy suburb to the north. It was cold and damp, but my spirit of adventure was undaunted. Past an outdoor market of old clothes and cheap African “tribal art” knockoffs was a warren of shops, most of which didn’t seem to carry antiques. I was pleased to note that the street alongside was the Rue Jean Henri Fabre, named for the French entomologist who wrote so passionately, so poetically of his work that he accidentally created literature.
I finally found the antique shops. Schlepping among them for the next two hours, I found a wilderness of candelabra. Alas, practically every one was part of a pair, and usually accompanied by a clock. I found one glorious exception, ornate enough to satisfy anyone, but at 2200 francs (around $350) it was somewhat trop cher so I reluctantly left it behind. The shops mostly carried junk of the most dismal type, but goodies glittered among the dreck in almost every one, so I had a thumping good time. By the time all the shops had shuttered, I was stiff with cold and ready to think about dinner.
The Metro brought me back into the center of the city, to the Les Halles stop. The city at dusk was enchanting (no surprise) and the nearby church of St. Eustache glowed dully against the purple sky. The old food market has been removed to an outer suburb, and the Les Halles marketplace is now the site of a multi-floored shopping complex, chic and soulless and so closely built along American lines one might just as well be in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. I was, however, able to replace my lens cap.
It was just a short walk to one of the great Brasseries of Paris, cited by Nancye as one of the places one must not miss. Au Pied de Cochon shone in the night like a casket of jewels, a swirl of color and warm lighting. It’s touristy enough to suit your Aunt Gladys but at the same time exquisitely, authentically Parisian. I arrived just before the dinner crowd, and was shown to a corner table with a good view of the passing show. At the top of the menu were three offerings of cold seafood, and I chose the most spectacular of the three, accompanied by a half bottle of white Bordeaux.
The waiter brought me an iced platter as big as a bicycle wheel. Arranged artfully on top was a lavish profusion of clams, oysters, large pink shrimp, a scallop shell filled with tiny black snails, a generous scattering of sea snails (my new discovery, boulus), another scallop shell piled high with tiny shrimp in the shell, and in the center, reposing like a pasha in his harem, a steamed crab. It was all delicious, though I had a bit of trouble with a couple of items. The black snails had been prepared with clove, which seemed odd, and they were fiendishly difficult to extract from their shells. The tiny shrimp, no bigger than coughdrops, were hard to separate from their heads and legs. I finally took the path of least resistance and simply popped them into my mouth.
Halfway through my meal, two women sat down at an adjoining table and were brought the same iced platter. “Oh-la-la!” exclaimed the younger woman, something I would never have expected to hear off the stage, say from a saucy maid in a Feydeau farce. But she only expressed what I was thinking.
Despite all this glorious seafood, I must confess that this miserable sinner ended his meal with a moelleux de Chocolat. This fever-dream of a dessert was a plump chocolate brioche stuffed with chocolate-and-passionfruit mousse, covered with a cap of crisp hard chocolate. This was accompanied by a ball of strawberry ice cream and the whole assemblage swam in a pool of chocolate, passionfruit, and burnt caramel sauces. I now have a new yardstick by which to measure decadence.
After dinner, I set out for the Théâtre de l’Opéra-Comique, which was presenting Offenbach’s La Perichole. I’m a pushover for Offenbach, but mostly I wanted to see the theatre itself, where Carmen and Tales of Hoffmann were first produced. I arrived as the first act was letting out; it wasn’t La Perichole but a musical called Macadam, Macadam. I attempted to get information from an old lady selling programs in the lobby, but her English was even more primitive than my French. A young man stepped up to help and introduced himself as Sebastién Nuss. The musical, he said, was not particularly good, and mostly noise (it’s a sort of street theatre for under-twenty-somethings). La Perichole had finished the previous week. When I told him I was from Boston he brightened — his cousin and her family live there. He gave me his card and said I must write to him.
I walked up the Boulevard des Italiens toward the Paris Opera. It is a mixed bag of a building, an agreeable melange of styles. It was getting colder now, and I forged on towards the Madeleine. By this point I was just trying to hit a few highlights. Walking through a great city at night can be intoxicating even if your nose is cold as a dachshund’s. At the Place de la Concorde, which appeared even bigger at night, I looked up the Champs Elysées toward the Arc de Triomph. It shimmered in the distance like a mirage, so I walked toward it, if only to prove it wasn’t an illusion. The closer I got, the more it resembled a diamond solitaire set in the midst of rubies and lesser gems, the lights along the Champs Elysées.
It took the better part of an hour to reach the arch, and when one is finally there, it’s bigger than you dare hope (in fact the largest of its kind in the world), as much the star attraction of Paris as the Eiffel Tower. I walked around admiring it from various angles, then descended into the Metro again. After I’d bought my ticket a pretty young blonde woman perceived that I wasn’t exactly sure which direction I was going. She gave me directions and disappeared.
Back at St. Michel, I resisted going to bed. Although footsore and weary, I wanted to wander the nighttime streets as long as I could without dropping from exhaustion. The night beckoned and I had no choice but to follow.
I sustained myself again at a sidewalk creperie, a heartier snack this time: grated cheese, turkey ham, and an egg, wrapped up as before and stuffed into a paper cone. I wandered through the little streets in this part of the Latin Quarter, looking at menus, watching people and munching contentedly on my crepe. Just as I felt in danger of falling asleep on my feet, I turned back toward the hotel. For a block or so I was accompanied by two beautiful women clasping each other affectionately. They sang drunkenly, haltingly, but with great concentration, “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” It sounded partly like a Sapphic dirge, partly a solemn celebration, and altogether pleasing. They waved me good night at the corner of The Gargantua and I went on up to bed.

Tuesday, January 16
The first order of the day was to stop at the Metro station and find out how to get the train to the airport the next morning. Since this was to be my final day in Paris, I decided to save time by having breakfast on the go. At a little patisserie on the Île St. Louis I got (oh, shame!) a plump meringue and an apple turnover. I did a bit of shopping and returned my purchases to the hotel, then crossed over to the Right Bank by way of the Pont d’Arcole for a walking tour of the Marais.
In front of the Hotel de Ville a large skating rink had been set up, steps away from two more brightly lit carousels. Halfway up the Rue di Rivoli I stopped for another crepe with Nutella. At the end was the broad square where the Bastille formerly stood. The column commemorating the 1830 and 1848 revolutions is now just another frenzied traffic roundabout, and history lies far in the background. Now the square is dominated by the cold silver curves of the enormous Opéra de Paris Bastille. This opera house could almost contain the Garnier Opera, and in fact looks like the box something would come in.
From here I doubled back to see the Place de Vosges, home of kings and cardinals and royal favorites — and of Victor Hugo. This elegant Renaissance square is grand and yet truly human-scaled, perfectly proportioned architecturally. Neatly pruned trees stand in military ranks. Even in mid-winter, these trees attract visitors into the square to admire the equestrian statue of Louis XIII.
A few blocks on, I came across the Musée Carnavalet. After two perfect museum experiences, I hadn’t planned to visit another. But it looked managable, good for a short visit. And it was here. The information sheet suggested that the visitor should count on spending at least two hours. I stayed for four.
This was the best introduction to the city’s history, the one museum that no first-time visitor to Paris should miss. To see it at leisure is to witness the city’s growth through the ages, starting from a tiny pre-Roman settlement whose dead center appeared to be just about where my hotel is. In the first long hallway, old shop signs are hung, an appetizer for the bounties to come. The museum is arranged in a loose chronological order, and the paintings of the city create a continuum of its history. The top floor exhibit was harrowing, an exhaustive history of the French Revolution from the fall of the Bastille to the Terror. Here, the bloodthirstiness of the populace is made almost palpable.
My favorite gallery contained an entire Art Nouveau shop interior by Alphonse Mucha. But on the way out, I happened upon a small gallery lined with glass cases that delighted me as much as anything I saw in Paris. A 19th century sculptor named Dantan had created a sideline of small terracotta figures. These caricatures of his prominent contemporaries were merciless, inventive, irresistible. Here were Offenbach and Victor Hugo and Rossini, but even faces unfamiliar to me were entertaining.
Lunch was very late, and again, eaten on the run. I stopped at a small bakery at the corner of the Rue de Gilles and got a feuilleté du chevre, delicate puff pastry surrounding goat cheese with a hint of curry. I munched on it happily as I walked to the Chemin Vert Metro stop.
My goal was the Des Abbesses stop, one of the few remaining canopied Art Nouveau Metro entrances. These exquisite fantasias by Hector Guimard have dwindled to a handful, which is a shame. They should all be replaced or recreated, for they are the essence of the pleasure-lovers’ Paris. The Des Abbesses stop was the entryway to my last great unexplored neighborhood: Montmarte.
If there was an escalator somewhere at the Des Abbesses stop, I never found it. The only exit I saw led up a long spiral stairwell. Every surface, walls and overhead, had been decorated by Montmartre artists. Their collective imagination, as far as I could tell, hadn’t developed very far past Les Fauves, but their enthusiasm was unmistakable. I puffed my way to the top, bounding up the steps two at a time. Later I read that this Metro stop is the deepest in Paris. It felt like it.
The Place des Abbesses is an oddly shaped little square of little consequence; the graceful Guimard entryway gives the square its greatest distinction. I climbed up streets as steep as any in San Francisco, in the general direction of the Sacre Coeur. I paused to look back. The sky was aflame with deep rose fading to gold, and the bare winter trees snaked across the sky. Passing the former site of the Bateau Lavoir, where Modigliani starved and Picasso painted Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, I reached the rue St. Rustique and paused to catch my breath.
Suddenly a young man with a sketchpad stopped in front of me, eyes widening at this apparition before him: the perfect subject for a portrait! Oh, please, monsieur! Such a face! I protested that I had no wish to be drawn, but he persisted. The result was pathetically amateurish; it might just as easily have been a portrait of Kaiser Wilhelm II, Elton John, or — given the mustache — Alice B. Toklas. It was certainly not me. He scribbled a price on the next sheet, which I snickered at. I offered to draw him in return, which would have given him by far the best of the bargain. It was a ludicrous scam and I left him there, marking his price down again and again, protesting that I was leaving a treasure behind. I wouldn’t have minded subsidizing a starving artist but he was no artist, and judging by the physical evidence, he was comfortably unfamiliar with starvation.
Around the corner was the Place du Tertre, a square ringed with artists showing their wares. I didn’t stop, having just seen an example of the local talent. Dusk was approaching and I wanted to see Paris from one of its highest points. Sacre Coeur was worth the climb, pristine white and faintly suggesting a mosque. The view of the city might have been spectacular but for the haze which enveloped everything — except the Eiffel Tower, which rose majestically in the distance.
The greater part of Montmarte lay at the foot of the hill. Rather than take the funicular rail line to the bottom, I pattered down the Rue Foyatier, the much-photographed street of steps. Montmartre, I have to conclude, is overrated. Dingy and crowded and the home to countless fabric shops, it bore little resemblance to the artists’ playground of popular folklore. It had terrific vitality, though, and buzzed with people.
On the map I found La Table d’Anvers, a restaurant that has garnered raves. It seemed like a good prospect for my last meal in Paris. But it was locked up tightly. So tightly, in fact, that it may have gone out of business.
I continued up Boulevard de Clichy, intending to at least see La Moulin Rouge. As I approached Pigalle the night acquired an unsavory air. The fabric shops were replaced by live sex shows, and one sidewalk flack after another tried to reel me in. I walked along, eyes ahead, muttering “non” every few feet. Eventually the hookers got into the act. One hollow-eyed wraith, dressed entirely in black, tailed me for half a block imploring me to sample her diseased charms. If I’d decelerated in the slightest, she would undoubtedly have attached herself to my leg like an apache dancer, and been dragged down the street. I finally managed to shake her. Another, who looked more like a Chestnut Hill matron than a whore, moved in to clinch her deal. I archly cocked an eyebrow and murmured, “Je suis homosexuel.” I’d found the key: the angels of the asphalt melted away like spring snow. They must have had some sort of primitive network going for them, like jungle drums.
Finally I reached La Moulin Rouge. It wasn’t a disappointment, except for its grubby surroundings. The posters outside suggested a Las Vegas-style extravaganza, all bare bosoms and glitter. I wasn’t tempted; sitting in a theatre wasn’t how I wanted to spend my last evening in Paris. All I wanted was to find a good restaurant and end my vacation with a first-rate meal. I tried to find a restaurant in one of the side streets but without success. Here were mostly smoky little bars, each one more louche than the one before. I headed to the Pigalle Metro stop. One last fille de joie who hadn’t gotten the official word ran her eyes up and down me as if I were a rich dessert, overplaying her hand outrageously. I bolted past her and disappeared into the Metro, grateful to leave Montmartre -- and her -- behind. Even my sensualism has its limits.
Instead of taking the train all the way to St. Michel I stopped at Châtelet so I could walk back across the Île de la Cité, dreamily beautiful at night. In the Metro a small combo, Les Musiciens de Lviv, had attracted a large crowd with their rich, soupy eastern European music. I stopped to listen and even bought a couple of their CDs. For a while I talked with a very attractive man, perhaps my age, a great devotee of street music. In excellent English, he told me that this music was in his blood. He is originally from Sarajevo, and has lived in Paris for twenty years.
For my last meal I chose the Brasserie de l’Île St. Louis, which I’d been attracted to on my first day. Here I had the most expensive and least satisfying meal of the trip, but the setting made up for any shortcomings. It was just what one expects of an Alsatian brasserie, gleaming brass and dark wood, waiters bustling by with schooners of beer, the air perfumed with sauerkraut. For once I was baffled by a menu. The waiter explained as well as his virtual lack of English — and mine of French — would allow. The gendarme fumé, for example, was not a smoked policeman, but smoked haddock. They were out so he brought me the saucisse aux tripes instead, which I should have sent back. It was more or less kielbasa, a fatty, garlicky mouthful, chewy as harness leather. But the main course was miraculous: coq au Riesling. Though cooked in white wine, it was much darker than a traditional coq au vin, and so tender it was falling off the bone. The flavor was intense, and came close to overpowering the bottle of tokay pinot grigio. I finished with a slice of tarte Tatin, which barely made an impression, then made for the hotel. A final stop at Shakespeare and Company was my last indulgence. Leaving a wake-up call at the desk, I went to bed at ten.

* * *

A flirtation is not a love affair. No one can truly know Paris in a scant five days. I had come to a sumptuous banquet and been allowed to eat one perfect appetizer before being gently dismissed from the table. On the following morning I saw the last of Paris through the grimed windows of the RER train to the airport. In wintertime the morning light comes late to Paris and there was little to see but the tatty northern suburbs whistling past.
But I was satisfied. I knew I’d be back.