Mai 1 Chateau De Rigny, near Gray
Visit to Ronchamp and Notre Dame du Haute (Le Corbusier)
Again the computer issues regarding the access through the room is very frustrating. At this point it is not clear when I will be able to upload. I decided yesterday on our trip into France, that we should drive to Ronchamp, the site of the famous Chapel d’Notre Dame du Haute by Corbu. It had always been held as a icon for me as something that was never to actually be seen, only studied about in some remote fashion via books, slides or images. So much so that even upon our approach, it became clear to me that the famed roof structure was not as it had seemed in the history book as wooden but was instead in the true-to-form Int’l style way a herald of the “potential beauty of concrete”. I think in retrospect that the reason for the dupe was the simple fact that what is seen by photo is the impression left by the woodform that the cast roof took. So from a photo it would look like it had the texture of wood. I am immediately reminded of the new work of Rachel Whiteread and how here inside-out houses and the casting of empty shells of buildings makes us reassess our enclosed surroundings.
It was a beautiful day and a beautiful view with all of us relatively sleepy-eyed climbin up to the majestic structure ( smaller than imagined) and still impressed by the quality of light in the spaces but as it is a catholic Church, it was a bit forbidding to see the confessional chambers as somewhat prison-like. But the apses with the forty foot ceiling just for the spiritual quality of the light and the small and playful rectangles of colored glass ( with paint on them written simply: “MARIE”) was nothing short of inspiring. I brought it home to the kids that this was in some ways for the Architect a unique opportunity to be part of the pantheon of architects before him that were asked to build churches….
Prior to seeing Ronchamp, We had set off from Zurich to Basel where I was in search of some of the art there. Pierre and Nicole had, the night before proudly shown us the Jean Tinguely silk scarf that they had framed, remarking on how the frame was more expensive than the piece. But, said Pierre, he really loved the museum as it had changed his perspective of what he thought was art. He briefly had mentioned while in the Haupbahnhof ( the main train station in Zurich) upon seeing a large Nikki de Saint Phalle and a larger neon work over the station, that he couldn’t explain it and that was what made it art. Anyway, there were all of these wheels and clanging chains and movement and simple interactivity that I think enamoured the Tinguely museum to him and so we ventured on our way to Dijon to visit.
Upon our arrival, I was surprised and delighted to find that in conjuction with the major collection of Tinguely’s work there was a show about Duchamp with many of the ready-mades reproduced and exhibited as well as the oft-discussed yet never seen rotoscopes which Pontus Hulten another Sky Art curator and mis n scene of kinetics, had helped to organize. It really was kind of a blend of frustration as the museum itself was not really designed as an interactive experience, but the pieces themselves ( especially the larger ones) truly were a direct connection to what I was discussing in my thesis (Towards Large-scale Environmental performance) whether it was the “Mengele dance of Death” or the last piece we saw which reminded me of the Uberorgan of Tim Hawkinson a huge work with many large and small wheels which within a frame move around slowly to the left and the right crushing small keyboards and spinning little garden dwarves. It is a strong sense of humor and one that also brings me back to my own interactive ( air and power driven ) “airwave”….Solenoid Heaven….. It made me want to use all of the micromotors that Steve L gave me.

Montag, April 29, Zurich

It is eleven oclock here in the am and a single bell sounds in the near distance and soon thereafter a passing streetcar rushes by. Zurich is placed at the top of a mountain-bound lake with the Alps clearly visible on one end of the lake and behind the piedmont behind the town. The sun is bright and warm but today the dark clouds alternate with the sun and predictions from our ever non-faithful Intíl Herald tribune says showers. So much for the niceties of the weather. As for the season: it has been truly wonderful to go from country to country and basically avoiding winter and having instead an endless spring. It appears that wherever we go wisteria is in bloom and the gentle fragrance makes it all even more apparent that spring seems unbelievably in constant resurgence. From Nicoleís distant cousinís (Pierre and Nicole Selig) house in Thalwil the view is spectacular reminiscent of a more developed Sakonnet river with gentle hills flowing to the lake and instead of the Atlantic Ocean to your right, the Alps. The Seligís gave us a tour around the city which was really great in terms of its orientation and in terms of the general feel for a sense of place. First we ventured via train to the piedmont behind the town in Uetilberg to make a brief hike to the viewing station high above the city. It is a panorama that affords long-distant views of all of the surrounding peak including the ìmonk and the Virginî which are arguably the largest remote peaks that we could see. Like Queentown, NZ these are very breathtaking views where huge mountains meet glacial lakes. The Seligís take us to a variety of places all with one linking theme: Pierreís incredible infatuation with the rail. (he is the spitting image of Ralph, Liane Novickís ‚the conduit for meeting this great family of four ‚Nicole, Daniel , Pierre and Cornelia) The Haupbahnhof , the major train station is from his view the center of life here in Zurich. It is slightly ironic that this place this self styled ìislandî ( named so because of the geopolitical stance against joining the EU and other issues of independence both financial and infrastructural) main meeting place and civic foci is the place where you can leave. Anyway, the Seligís fascination with the trains is very Swiss as this elegant and truly European method of transport is really remarkable. The Seligís live in Thalwil surrounded on both sides by train tracks and yet it is relatively quiet largely because the trains are not the racketyrackety kind we are accustomed to. His ìcellarî is completely devoted to favorite obsession with a highly complex switching station for his myriad of 1/8 scaled or 1/32 scale locomotives and transport of which he has a true multitude. We have a great day going on life size trains and trams and visiting a wonderful new station by Calatrava which I did find incredibly inspirational ( that and the Nikki de Saint-Phalle whose work I have always admired. Calatravaís walkways cantilevered and suspended seem modeled after the skeleton of a whale and there are amazing details in the large-scale formed concrete supports and even in the slightly zigzagged nature of the fencing, the louvered entrance doors, it is just an amazing piece of work to see and I am especially grateful to Pierre for showing us this. Showing us Zurich from the perspective of one who clearly loves these engineering flights of fancy and the highly complex design challenge of moving people and goods efficiently through large distances with beauty and speed is something to be marveled at. We have a great meal kind of like the traditional Swiss fondue but called instead raclette in which individual slices of raclette cheese is mixed with a variety of other things ( onions, small corns, garlic, pickles, curry powder) and then placed under or over a melting apparatus on individual little warming trays. The kids really liked it which was really great seeing they usually bitch and moan about cheese. Canít come to this part of the world and not eat cheese. The informality of the meal and the interactive side of it was really family-like we felt very welcomed and included. As this was the second time we had had a family cooked meal since Thailand, it was a really wonderful experience. The after-raclette sunset reminded me of years earlier with Nicole and my first trip together around the US when we had just driven into the valley below the Sangre dí Christo Mts in Arizona where the red tint of the sun just caught the tips of the range illuminating it and giving the mountains their name. Nicole was using Pierreís computer and simultaneously having the wash ( a small load) done in the cellar. Again we are without a true internet connection other than those with others machines. So it is has been difficult to upload which in some ways makes me feel somewhat impotent in terms of communicating.

Tuscany

B&B&A
The long, dusty, white dirt road to Il Corzano near San Casciano is high on the crest of a ridge. It curves back and forth and up and down between kilometer after kilometer of grape arbors and olive groves. Pass the former church being converted into a home or some kind of agrituristic place, and the farmhouse is at the end of the road, surrounded by rosemary, heather, lilac, japonica and wysteria. Bees buzzing excitedly all around the front stairway.
Billy, Bouzha and Alex have been staying with Ian Pears and his wife Ruth and their kids Oliver and Alex and it has been most idyllic. I actually get a chance to paint a bit when we arrive and stay for a few days after Ian and Ruth have gone back to Oxford. The views are miraculous and the light is again leading you through a series of paintings with stark contrasts of forest and groves casting shadows over olive greens and Green golds of huge grazing pastures. Crowned on the opposing ridges are perfect manor houses overlooking the rolling pastures beneath them. Everything has the feel of the Mantegna Print that hung over my bed as a child. I remember delusional sickdays when I would feverishly look at the poster and specifically the vanishing point behind the horse and the trainer and seeing the negative eclipse of the image in the background (a small cliff as seen through almost a tunnel, a stone cave perhaps or abbreviated hillocks in the foreground).
There is no question that I want to return to this place. The large active fireplace in the kitchen functioned not only as a wonderous heat source, it also became a great classroom for me as Roseanna ( a 60+ woman who looks like a younger Mrs.Margaret Lehr) made roasted chicken and rabbit. The little metal cooking traps over the coals is it.

Friday, 12 April Rome

The interesting thing about staying at a B&B in the outskirts of Rome is that you get more of a true feeling of how people in Rome live. We donít see tourists except other folks ( very occasionally on the bus or at breakfast) and most are militarily related (ëWere not not Stationed here!î) buy food at the super Mercado, or bread at at the local place. The routine has settled in all in relation to feeding times. Yesterday we actually took some time off and just sat around the house while it was kind of rainy out; with the morning devoted to school work and Me painting from the wonderful Carravagio and Nicole settling the checkbook. The day before we ventured to Il Colliseo which Isaac, for one I know really loved, he bought a little model and an image of it which I taught him how to copy with the help of a renaissance grid. Using watercolor, he really did a smash up job and everyone was congratulating him about it. We traveled to the Colliseum with Andrea Baker and her two great kids Emanuelle and Elianora and had great afternoon tazza díoro with them near the Jewish Ghetto where we ultimately had dinner which was by the best so far ( Da Giggetto via dei portico díOttavia) great sweet breads and deepfried carciofi (artichoke). I sat for a while and tried to paint in Piazza Navonna despite the thousands of noisy nudgy tourists. We ended up pretty exhausted after walking around all day and after two other days doing the same things, it was really great to chill. Today we visited the Pantheon, like the Colliseum for Isaac , was for me a great visit back to stuff I had studied in college. Like the interior of the temples at Pompei which I had also tried to photograph, the sense of space created by the light from the Pantheonís oculus is ethereal and unreal and the echoing sound of space is also otherworldly. Sasha goes to dance class near where we are living and I am sure it will be something that she will write about and remember. Tonight is Nana and Poppaís last night with us. They have moved onto to a former monastery around the corner and they will stay there until Monday when they are off to London for some theatre. We too will move on tomorrow to Tuscany. Wednesday, 9 April Rome To walk around this city is to turn around every corner to a different ancient view each one more rewarding than the next. Yesterday it rains on and off, but undaunted we travel via taxi to The Borghese Villa Museum which proves to be both frustrating and simultaneously inspiring. There are incredible Carravagios there as well as some Bottecellis done in Tempera which were truly fascinating in terms of their complete perfectness. To this use of tempera, I am clearly drawn both because it is also a chosen media but also because it reveals a certain attainable and foreseeable goal and yet remains a total mystery as there is little in the way of technique revealed. Especially in the case of Bottecelli whose brush, tone and stroke control are just comepletely confounding. IN the case of Carravagio, the chiarscuro is so dramatic as to be a clear clue to the technique, a guide to his story telling and his ability to render. Add to the mix Hockneyís admirable contention that an oculis was used to help them render, the process becomes a bit more clear. I purchase a quality book on Caravaggio which actually has some wonderfully captured details so you can study the painting technique and the close-up inspection that one really needs to ìseeî the paintings. The viewing of the paintings in situ is really rather wanting both with the Baroque surrounding which are so busy with the faux pilasters and marbleized surfaces and the sometimes obtuse angles one needs to stand in to view the images without glare. ( this doesnít even broach the notion of all of the tourists who are pushing and shoving to get a squint at a pieceoícultcha.) The Bernini ìPersephone and Hadesî in one of the sala there is really detailed and subtle his hands truly squeeze her legs. The little indents where the fingers press on her fleshy buttocks is so subtle and the key to the exquisiteness of this work. Monday, 8 April 2002 Rome Last night was truly a wild and memorable introduction to this beautiful city. Weíd been here maybe half an hour when we decided to go to lunch and hook up with Toni and Larry upon our return. While walking up Via Pisana we ran into them returning from their lunch and we convinced them to turn around , show where they had been and had lunch. Sitting next to us were two Brits, who later would prove to be my escorts for the evening through what was left of three band ìcastî party of sorts left over from the previous night before ten thousand fans of their energetic takes on Ska. I answered one of their questions ( we were the only ones sitting and eating in the pizzeria) as the rest of the place was fascinated by the local Football match ( Rome versus Venice). It was a fun reunion with Nana and Poppa as my conversation began to get a bit more political with Roger and Jason who offered to take me with them to hear some Ska that night. For some reason, Nicole et al were more than willing to let me have a boyís night out with Jason promising to return me safe and sound. As it turns out, we finish our lunch after the owner finally brings us our insalata mista which he had spaced out about ( probably the football game again in the way) and Rog and Jason and I have been having a few laughs and basically beginning to hit it off. The Owner is Egyptian and his name is Itzok which immediately set us off on the similarity to Isaacís name. Again a minority culture introduced in a non-native environment like many of the service personnel that we have met along the trip; day workers, people in the trenches, often hot well educated hard-working people eager to help and accommodate. We and the Brits part ways and agree to hook up at the Roma B&B to begin the night out. The Fam and I return back to our ìchaletî with its precariously balanced faucet in the kitchen sink (now repaired) and two massive ìbear dogsî as Isaac likes to call them just sitting in the path awaiting our return sleepily. It is a funny place in time as I am feeling hey ok thanks to the Moretti Birra at lunch. A few minutes later, Roger and Jason show up and hang out for a bit on the patio while Larry has his inevitable pipe. I take out the guitar to show Roger, the guitarist for the band King Prawn. The guitar has provided a glimpse to other people all over the place both establishing to others that I can in fact play and reaching a certain communality with other musicians. A case in point is the bellboy at the Hotel Mediterraneo who is a bassist for his Naples-based rock band. Anyway, Toni kind of puts olíRog on the spot by asking him to play a song as he has just told us not an hour ago that he had the previous day played before ten thousand people here in Rome. Rog is definitely made nervous by this ( and I donít blame him) and he fumbles with my earplugs with Toni ( it is a drawback ). NO worries though; we get the lady at the B&B to order up a cab and we are away to the San Lorenzo (?) part of town to degli Etruschi a ìredî section of town where we begin to go pubcrawling, an activity I havenít done in a very long time. The first place we find after trying to find the Ska club ìSally Brownísî is an English pub which was a funny fact not lost on my two new found friends. They carry Knob Creek and the other single-barrel bourbons so I order KC ( a taste of home) and the waitress coyly asks me in her Broken Italo-Inglese ìon the rocks? I respond with a simple ìSiî which I seem to be doing constantly now; to which she replies ìNoî as if to say: ìI will not be a party to this insolent act of brutality.î This, of course, begins to crack me up and volume of my response grows while Rog ( under his breath mutters something about ëWhen in RomeÖ) So I say ìO.k. O.k. No Ice; just a side of aqua Minerale; I still think it so funny the way she has made such a strident response for my simple request. I have clearly committed some grave epicurean misdeed. She Responds: ì Never mind itís ok. ì She has poured the bourbon ( I knew I should have asked for a double) given what looks to be an eye dropper of sparking water and a SEPARATE glass for the Ice. But I continue with the ruse: Never mind No IceÖ. I pick up the towl on the surface of the bar and use it as a ìseparatorî between the glass with the ice and the glass with the bourbon

ì See?î I say. ìíneíer the twain shall meetî I think I have broken her seriousness. But I have lingering doubts as we leave the bar, change in hand, seeking a table. I am still shaking my head. I canít believe the ferocity with which she carried on: humourous beneath the surface and positively indignant on the surface. We sit down begin to get to know each other when another bloke comes in with his girlfriend. He is Al, the lead singer for the band, and at first appears to be Japanese with an East End accent. As it turns out his parents fome from Mauritsius and Sikim ( near Nepal) and as the night goes on I learn more about Mauritsius where is Dad is from. Jason is, as Roger describes him, an energetic dude. He is in charge of the merchandising and the transport of the band who are a hard-working band who apparently do gig a lot. Jasonís East End Cockney is intense but so great to hear. He is a truly earnest guy a man of his words with High principles, certain unflailing loyalty to his buds and to what he believes in. All-in all a rare bloke, true to his word. Driving in is always a challenge as we really never really know where we are or where we are approaching from not to mention that our increasing reliance on the GPS to help orient us is never completely straightforward or geographically correct. Naples had a series of very tiny streets that at first we found in a vain attempt to go to our first hotel which after much

April 6 Naples
Naples has been interesting and fun with brief but enjoyable visits with George Blumberg and his wife Rosella and their two kids Jacopo and Stefano. The kids and Rosella are here with her mother as they have a month off from school in Oxford and George left thurs to go back home. We'll staystay with them back in Oxford when there.
Today was another one of those eventful days for all of us as we ventured to Pompei by the commuter train and spent the whole day there. Part of the excitement comes from Isaac's "inspiration" --as he likes to call it-- from the experience. On the way home for example he is composing the report on Pompei that he is planning on writing AFTER DINNER! It is currently 10: thirty and he is on the other computer typing away on his report. ( this is exactly what we had hoped for in providing a great experience for the two of them....) I too enjoyed seeing Pompei a place I had previeously only imagined and vividly from a young age. The frescoes in the National Archaelogical Museum are amazing as are those that still remain on the site. Yesterday, We went down the street from our hotel and went to the Maschli Angioino (Nuovo Castelli) a huge Castle at the harbor front where there is currently the civic museum which houses some amazing painting. Again Isaac was inspired especially by the elaborate bronze gate with the cannon ball lodged into its midst and again came home to write about it. It came a close second to his understanding the differences between renaissance and Byzantine painting.)
Tomorrow it is onto Roma another place with an exhaustive array of things to see. Italy is truly amazing and repeat visits are always going to be on my list. Positano this past week was also breathtaking both for its views and its switchback roads ( which unlike Northern Luzon are paved....)

March 30, Positano
• Strange recurring old childhood dreams become realtity….
I was nodding off to sleep the other night to the BBC, (one of the only English –speaking respites on most hotel room TV repertoire) when a story comes on about a new study about the harmful effects of violence on Television on young children. Who should be the children casually watching the old telly during the British voice over? Groggy –eyed but immediately and startlingly awake, I sat up straight in bed to see Nola and Sabina lazily watching and then: cut to one Dr. Jeffery Johnson from Columbia University commenting in some authoritative way… I rustle up Nicole: “It’s Jeffrey! Its’ Nola! Wake Up!—I can’t believe it!” I am saying over and over again; was it a dream? It really was a nice surprise half way around the world and for a electronic minute I found myself back amongst friends (even if just for a few seconds…). (Although the truth be known I doubt any violent tendencies between Nola and Sabina came from too many Itchy and scratchy Cartoons….;))
We hung out today with George and Rossella Blumberg and their two sons Stefano and Jacopo seeing some INCREDIBLE marble sculpture in Napoli by Joseph San Martino of a reclining Christ under the a sheet. The fabric layer was so sheer that you could almost see him breathing. In fact, as George had described it prior to entering : “You’ll be able to see him frozen in his final breath. It did very much appear as if his final breath was captured as an inhalation because the sheet appears to look as if it is being sucked in, the work is so subtle. And to his right was a Neptune-like figure emerging from a meticulously carved life-sized marble (faux rope) net beyond the imagination of any stone sculptor I have ever seen. We continued on to amazing Neopolitan Pizzaria near Rossella’s school where she teaches music ( when not in Oxford). Amazing Salsicca….
We hung out last night With George and Rossella, catching up on old times drinking Lagavulin and discussing so many memories including being together about ten years ago in the Poconos singing together with Josh Radin and Chuck and Wendy and Franco. The view from the Hotel of the Bay of Naples was interesting and at breakfast stunning with Vesuvio in the background. The piling up of civilization upon civilization even occurred in the view from our balcony as there was immediately below us the rooftop of the place behind the hotel and so many antennae before us in the near distance. Reminded me of a dream I had had as a child of a view of rooftops as far as I could see and all of them covered with antennae. I remember that dream as if it were yesterday because it was so distinctive and I think it became the subject of an English class exposition we were to write based on a dream. And here it seemed to be a very clear and present reality.
Napoli is an incredible large city with so much to see, We will have to revisit it next week and try to take in more. But now we have arrived in the breathtaking hillside town of Positano which we will hang out in for a few days. Mix Big Sur with a measure of the South Coastal Road in South Australia and truly beautiful late afternoon orange hues from the setting sun cast 3 thousand feet above you onto gigantic stone outcroppings and mountains cascading into the Adriatic with Romanesque villages perched precariously on the cliff faces and you’ve got the approach road filled with switchbacks that each time turn you around and deliver what Sasha has come to define as the WOW factor.
I did actually get a chance in Ravenna to upload a few images and some new additions to the web site although I just uploaded and didn’t check to see that anything actually worked as it got to be about 1am and Poor Nicole was ready to ( justifiably, perhaps) kill me.
About Ravenna: Incredible mosaics; Nicole has a cold and I go searching for some more pseudophedrina at the Farmacia and on my way back find a wonderful little store that sells mosaic elements like colored glass by the kilo. I knew N would like it so after visiting one of the churches before going to lunch in the People’s square I took her there and she bought some stuff for her future mosaic project which she has been collecting ceramic and glass for. I really enjoyed Ravenna both for it’s charm, its scale and the genuineness of the people. Not jampacked with Tourists like Venice and yet the kids seemed to really acclimate to Church-visiting. Sasha in particular I think really appreciated going to S. Vitale where a rehearsal was going on for a concert later that night. The orchestra I think was British but the female soloists were Italian and with the amazing mosaics and frescoes on the duomo above it was a real treat to hear angels sing and see them and other putti at the same time. I know Isaac got some great footage and (at least) some amazing sound for future editing.
Tomorrow I hope to return to some semblance of a routine in regards to scheduled learning.

March 24, Venezia
It is a beautifully clear day here, clear as a bell; in fact there are what seems to be thousands of bells chiming simultaneously outside my window. Again I am in a city of sounds. Last night as we fell off to sleep after quickly tiring of the CNN broadcast of the same hotspot news: (Israelis and Palestinians both killing each other’s children and Bush Flying into Peru opening the doors to their markets snore….) there is a disco with its thumping beat and spinning disco lights that we can see from our balcony window across the narrow canal. The lights make silhouette of elaborate grillwork on the arched doorway first yellow then blue then red and in the background chanting in Italian (like a football game) “Oi wee oiwee oiwee!” and then laughter; all of this accompanied by the mix of a two-beat disco thump.
You can barely make out that these young revelers are doing some kind of circle dance which must have somehow melded into my subconscious as my dream last night were clear and very distinct about me joining some cabal of witches in West Philadelphia and spending the better part of my (dream time) trying to get out of being part of this group of elderly souls…. There was also something about a menacing squirrel that had the ability to chew through telephone pole-like timbers and become a true pest. O.K. Freud would have a field day on that one. George Blumberg also figures into it as someone who would visit and help me…. Ok. George, if you are reading this, we’ll see you soon.
Came to Venice yesterday via Innsbruck after a disastrous day trying to take advantage of some fresh powder on a glacier. When I say disastrous I say it because it truly was a day that had missed cues written all over it. I couldn’t help be reminded of the last time I was in the Alps (albeit Italian and not Austrian) when I was in college in England and had taken a brief holiday with my then girlfriend, Carol Klein. We had spent our last night together in Milan after spending the day in Venice and that night had the incredible experience of seeing a little known tenor (one Pavarotti) sing Rodolfo in La Boheme at La Scala. But, back to the Alps: I had decided since I was in the North I would go to Cervinia and go skiing. I had little or no money at the time and was living on granola that I had brought with me from England. I stayed at a little place next to train (“Rouge et Noir”) in Val d’aosta and somehow remember leaving my skis somewhere on the hill and unable to find them for hours. I don’t remember how I ultimately found them but I do remember the stress they gave me as through my mind I thought about going to jail for not having the money to pay for lost skis. I do also remember returning to the Rouge et Noir and having my first meal in a week and having my stomach being so shrunken (don’t laugh) that the notion of many courses (Primo, secondi,) made me so fill I literally thought I was gonna pop.
So that was the last time skiing in the area. This time had overtones of poor karma from the beginning. I asked Nicole if she wanted to use the car if she would drive us to the glacier to ski. This way we could leave leisurely in the morning after we got the skis since it was only (we were told) a half hour drive. Well the half hour turned into two hours as we got off the autobahn too early because the woman behind the desk at the hotel suggested that we get off to avoid the toll. We ended up paying the toll twice because we got lost more than once. Actually the ride itself was truly a beautiful alpine drive and we actually got way off track trying to locate the glacier from the Ski map that she had given us. We ended up at a remote chalet and I entered to get better directions and the two women who were in there cooking a roast, sautéing it onions and garlic—it smelled great) said we had to turn around and head all the way back down the dirt mountain road to the little village of Mutter where we had begun. Anyway.
(Pause: a gondola is passing by outside our open window with an accordion player singing with his wonderful tenor a very familiar Italian tune which fades out the further down the little canal outside our window…. magical)
When we finally do reach the bottom of the Stubaital Glacier at about 3K feet, it is no longer the bright green grass of the valley below and is instead a little mini blizzard reaching towards white out. We are depressed as we thought from the morning sunshine that our decision might have been made easier. But it was further complicated as Nicole at this point (justifiably) was truly pissed that we had brought her along as she thought the trip was only to last a half hour. And here we were, with all of the equipment including ski jackets, gloves, pants (hey, weren’t we just in Bangkok where it was 39C/93F?) I agonized on whether to go or not. We had said back in Innsbruck that if the weather sucked we wouldn’t go. But here we were at the base with the sugar-coated evergreens disappearing into the clouds above and a lighter snowfall than before. Oh, what the hell we’re here.
So Eyes and I leave Nicole and Sasha and head off in search of tickets and the gondola. As it turns out the lift for half day for me was only 17Euros and Isaac was free. So onto the gondola we went. He and I were psyched. Even though the trip up we couldn’t see a whole helluva lot. (little did we know it would get worse…) We arrived mid mountain and were searching for a place to plop our sneakers and were told in broken English at the summit. So Up we went on the next gondola. OK. So we stash our sneaks behind a dumpster as we couldn’t find the lockers and off we went. Outside it was snowing a lot and as we were on the summit, it was fairly windy as well. (the day had started in the mid 50sF). Bundled up, I decided this would be one run and then we’d see. Isaac was reacquainting himself with skiing and at first it was coming back to him but the further we went the more intense the waves of clouds/snow became till we were amidst a white out.
It was disorienting and I knew that timing was to be an issue. We were at the summit at about 14.30 and had to be at the bottom in a half an hour (which with normal visibility we probably could have) we actually didn’t get to the mid summit gondola till 16.00 (4p) and the gondola back to the summit had closed so there went our sneakers and also a set of small poles. Isaac was fried both from the tension and the exertion, but we met some nice people from Germany in the gondola ride down who offered to help and ask if there was another bus as it was close to 4:30 when the last bus into Innsbruck left.
We get to the Bottom and Thomas goes and inquires (saying “Typical. The first Austrian that I ask is somewhat arrogant and says GO LOOK at THE BUS SCHEDULE”) He returns and says: “Good News or bad news first?” I say “Bad” He says: “well the bus to Innsbruck just left.” (I had just seen it pull away) “ But the good news is the last bus isn’t until five thirty. So you have time to get a schnapps for you and a chocolate for Isaac.” So we go get a hot chocolate and obstler (some schnapps-like thing) from the noisy bar playing oompah music and a bunch of fashionable Fabio look-alikes hanging around and go back to wait for the bus.
As it turns out the bus we get is not a direct bus to Innsbruck; when the bus empties out a bit I walk forward and ask does this bus go to Innsbruck and sure enough it doesn’t but the driver will instruct us where to get off and wait for the connecting bus. Mind you we are still in Ski boots and will be for the next forty-five minutes. We catch the connecting bus in Fulpmes a little Alpine Town on the way to the Glacier, (which apparently Nicole and Sasha had lunch at the day before). It is pouring rain there but we are under a large glass canopy and eventually the bus SAYING Innsbruck on the front comes. Meanwhile, back in the hotel, Nicole and Sasha have prepared for the evening concert of Berlioz and Shostakovich and nervously waiting for us.
We arrive a the bus station and catch a cab skis, ski boots etc. and speed across town to the hotel where Isaac’s does “the fastest dress job” he’s ever done. We had a speedy dinner of pasta and venison and then it was off to Congress for an amazing performance by the Austrian Symphony. So it was a great capping for an otherwise miserable day.
The intensity with which the Russian Soloist from St.Petersburg played will be forever etched as a positive to the end of an interminable day. He brought out sounds from his cello by subtly sliding his fingers that would lead one to believe the instrument was sighing. I am convinced that Shostakovich’s spirit was directly infused into his performance and the five ovations and the subsequent encore was proof. The resounding tapping of kudos from the string sections’ bows on their music stands was reinforcement enough. They too were impressed and humbled by his performance. I was glad that the kids truly enjoyed it.
It is 10:04 fully dark here in this incredibly romantic town. It definitely has me in its trance. I am sitting here in the corner of the room at the Hotel Centauro off Campo Manin square. (Really just down a hidden alley.) The room is a typically over-the-top silk embroidered striped (red and beige) with ornamental roses in ovals and ivy leaves and a combination of the two; plus two beds combined under a double headboard with gilded edges. It is clearly too much. But here in my corner with the old five-foot by 18inch double paneled windows (two on each side) with a view directly up a side canal it is a small piece of a third floor walk-up birds eye view of the gondolas, their tourista captives and the occasional musician in tow. Here under an incredibly clear sky I can hear the last of the romantics as they travel up my little canal singing their last song to the accordion. I just thank God that it is (like earlier today) NOT “My Way.” It is a wonderful place albeit coutured to a tourist population.
A lone outboard passes by and Nicole, listening to the TV hears “multo bene” and repeats it.
Today with the amazing Tiepolos and even more incredible Tintorettos it became even more evident to me the importance of continuing to paint in the renaissance technique with the underpainting and the egg tempera underpainting. It is everywhere. (you can see it cracking under years of varnish) but the amazing sense of light is STILL amazing and certainly inspiring. Of course except for all of the photos and some relatively interesting video, what I would paint is still a mystery. We played a “Where’s Waldo” attempt to find the Duke in all of the paintings around the ever-wonderful Doge’s Palace. The kids soon understood that it was the commissioning Duke’s picture that assumed the focus of chiaroscuro in some of the most beautiful works. “It is the guy with the big bucks that gets HIS picture painted….” They also understood at San Marco’s the difference between the styles of the Renaissance and the Byzantines. In Isaac’s case I pulled him aside and showed him the differences in terms of two and three-dimensional representation and I think it really clicked which was truly wonderful.
We couldn’t log on from the hotel room unfortunately but found an Internet café and I learned of how I will be able to upload images soon, so stay tuned.
Buono Notte.

This is another one of those complex cities filled with complex alliances, incredible visible history, constant influx of Japanese and German tourists and the ever-present "sucker seekers" as I have begun to call them. The food has been mostly unremarkable. But the architecture is totally engrossing. You really can't walk down the street without being accosted by the average tall-dark-and-handsome asking "where are you from? or the obligatory:"how many camels can I give you for your daughter?" or "please come in to look, no obligation to buy..." It is from the street a very pushy, yet warm culture with clearly an inventory of carpets far exceeding a demand. I think it is an excellent opportunity for the children to witness first hand a different culture in of basic economics.

ï Sultanahmet I really like the little area we are in. Our pied a terre ( the penthouse at the Empress Zoe) is a one room place with incredible views of the Sea of Marmara, an acient Cistern in our backyard purview and an equally old Mosque and minaret across the street. (We are reminded of its presence five times daily as that is the frequency of the call to prayer.)

Yesterday we hooked up with Recep and Michelle «ok because we had met Recep and his American friend Joel when crossing the Sultan Ahmet Square fleeing the suckerseekers. They, at first seemed to me more of the same until, they tried in confidence to assure us that they were different, giving us directions and telling us a bit about quality and, as Joel pipes in ("this guy's got the nice pieces") like we're getting the inside scoop.

Recep tells us of his American kids as he is married to an American from South Carolina, and as they are around Isaac's age we agree to meet to have the kids play. (This sounds reasonable to us as there is finally what appears to be a sincere offer of hospitality and it is accompanied by a short visit to Recep's house with Joel.) There is a certain enchanment to the ruse that is the sales routine among these craftiest of salesmen and it is as wonderfully subtle in its subtrefuge as it is in telling about the culture. These guys differentiate themselves from the average doorway- dwelling suckerseekers as they hunt for prey in the open squares and somehow lure them to their home. The act of bringing a stranger into one's home is the ultimate personalization of experience. One travels a third of the way around the world and is faced with the potential to purchase one of the largest purchases of a"durable" good but the act of making it a personalized experience is what makes the Turkish transaction special. Yes you can go into store front and buy a carpet, but in the legerdomain of buyer caveats is the frightening frontier of being "ripped off" so by inviting the buyer into one's personal space, a major act of trust has been engaged. In our case though, we were not looking for a carpet, instead an opportunity to hang out with some local folks, chat and have our kids play.... We met as arranged on Sunday am as agreed. Oliver and Avery «ok were sweet kids Nine and six respectively. I painted their portraits briefly (not really getting them) while Recep made a sale to a British guy, who ( as part of a further self-righteous testimony later) had been 'looking all over Istanbul for a carpet' and hadn't found anything, was about to go home and was lost on the street outside of Recep's house when they found him brought him in and as they described it made his day when his face lit up when he finally found what he was looking for. Isaac and Oliver played nicely explaining to each other about their respective homes, and experiences; Isaac showed them his gameboy, how to play it and they briefly discussed Pokemon although it was clear that Eyes had moved on from Pokemon and with Avery (a very energetic and smart young fellow like his older brother) still attached to it, so was Oliver. But they moved on to playing Chess, which I thought was great. Eyes still learning and Oliver pointing out the finer elements but both behaving like gentleman and shaking at the outcome with Oliver's winning. (Avery would pipe in with corrections constantly trying to tell Eyes of the right way to move a piece.) As this was the primary reason for coming, Nicole and Sash had (perhaps deliberately)lagged about a half hour behind. By the time they did actually arrive, Recep had already asked if I was interested in seeing some of his carpets, learning about them etc. I had politely declined. He would pop in and out of the room and clearly wasn't too interested in hanging out. He mentioned also that there had been a phone call late last night which woke everyone up, the kids so everyone was a little groggy. In fact when we first arrived the boys were still asleep, which immediately made me ask' did he tell them about Isaac? Anyway, the interior of his house was really quite wonderful. It was very similar to a South End brownstone with an offcenter central staircase. All of the walls were lined with stackes of carpets and Kilim. and hanging above ( to me the most fascinating part of his collection --which was extensive) was a series of Uzbeki ceremonial tribal headgear and cowrie shell-embedded circumcision gowns for young boys. The boys would continue to play with Isaac's baseball, rolling it on the floor between them. He had brought his mit in case these American kids had theirs, but Recep didn't want them to play in the parking lot next door because of fast (parking) cars. Oliver admits forlornly at one point in response to my question 'does your dad work a lot?' "yeah he doesn't have much time to play with us..." This became the first clue as I realized that he had "helped" the young"nose-in-his-tourbook-from-being-lost" Brit make his long sought-after purchase. A flash had crossed my mind two days before "was this a chance meeting?" or "was this just the most clever and smoothest ruse?" And I mentioned it to Nicole. We decided to let it play out. We were however largely dismayed ( Nicole being the first to be vocal for it and I commend her for that) to realize that it was a carpet-selling ruse more than an attempt to reach out. The problem with the customization of sales is that the buyer can be hoodwinked into believing the sincerity of the salesman. While Nicole and I are both very skeptic and sometime savvy buyers, this seemed different because the sacred territory of the children was a trust of truly personal space; So when Sash and Nicole came in, Recep still had the fire in his eyes about the previous sale, but Nicole was having none of it. When he offered to show us some carpets, I was interested in the artistic parts of it, not for purchase, even though I did vocalize ( mistakenly) that there might be a place for one.... But Nicole didn't like what she had seen at all, and I, in retrospect feel the same way, but at the time was interested in looking and learning. She demaded that we discuss it later, and showed a certain wisdom in doing so as it became clear to me that the "children playing together" was nothing more than having a ball room at IKEA where the kids are supervised while the parents shop. We come home and discuss with Fuat, the guy whose shift was on for running the Empress Zoe, about this strange experience and he recites a litany regarding Recep. And so the town na wonderfu Fellini-like way makes itself evident as a bunch of characters and lone rectifiers who bring clarity to the situation. It is not the taksi(taxi) drivers that are to be questioned like in Thailand where you need to make sure that they are running a meter (not quoting a specific fee) but the sales guys. On our brief visit to the Blue Mosque,we are taken through by a guy Ahmet(?) who we later call the "Not-a-tourguide-guy" "I will show you, I will show you." He carefully tells us to remove our shoes, place them in plastic bags (carry them) and leads us to the side (non praying)gently movingthe heavy covered tarp which opens the beautiful interior world of this famous Mosque; he describes how many thousands of tiles were used; what the original colors were before they started to use electrical light when candle exhaust changed the colors, how many personal rugs there were and which of the Venetian stained glass panels were original (lending their intense blue color hence the name). Somehow he determines that we are Jewish and goes on and on about how the Turks have always helped the Jews. Like some many of the people everywhere they are magnetically drawn to Isaac and gently pat his head, inquire of him his name and remark on how smart he is. We go outside as it is soon time for prayers, and he begins to tell us of his store and immediately, Nicole says no thanks and is equally immediately labelled a pariah by our false guide, who has tried to use guilt, a tactic as yet unused on us by all of those trying your basic frontal assault sales technique. "Ok, I UNinvite you, you are an ungracious person." All in all I really like Turkey and Istanbul in particular. It is not with out its rough edges, its sour Iranian Caviar, it's up-til now ok food and incredible views. But it certainly makes those times when you meet someone genuine like Fuat or Christina (the American owner of the Zoe) welcome respites in the unfamiliar chop here at the edge of the Sea of Marmara.

March 6 Istanbul 21.00

This is a city that doesn't appear to sleep. It is somewhere around nine oclock and the building on the place behind the blue tarp on the 3rd floor across the street is still buzzing with planks being stacked. Even in the distnace you can hear gulls cawing. Even the birds don't sleep? ANd then at sunrise again it is the call to prayer beginning first at the mosque across the street, then almost echoing all around this area, Sultanahmet. It becomes cacapohonous. Soon afterwards, the occasional massive supertanker will chime in with it's lonseome bellow saying'goodbye' or 'here I am folks, I'm hoooome-- open up the bascule bridges.'

ï Ataturk Int'l Airport

I distinctly remember enetering into the "greeting" area immediatetly outside of customs as we enetered Istanbul's airport's main lobby. Behind the temporary barrier was a small crowd of what appeared to be well wishers from a local village; common folk: Moslem women in babuschka's and smock-like coats over house coats ( a uniform on these rotund women); and men in simpole suit jackets and sweater vests,plaid shirts, loafers which appear scuffed and well used.

These folks with their kids in tow are craning their necks to see someone, perhaps loved ones, perhaps the reverred. And then in dribs and drabs there is applause until finally a certain group cheer, the reassurance that those they have craned thier necks so long for has resulted in a brief moment of exhiliration; of admiration, of love. It is an earthy almost naive welcome. I don't see sobbing reunions or huge embraces or the dignitary or movie star thatmight garner such an outburst. It is instead scattered applause and then unity of applause.

We make our way over to the tourist info station with a beautiful blonde Aussie rower who is in town for a conference. We meet her at the ATM where I am immediately sent back to teenagehood thinking of Firesign Theatre with "Waiting for the Electrician or Someone Like Him": "Please follow as we learn three new words in Turkish: TOWEL, BATH, BORDER-- May I see your Passport Please?" and the unforgettable (in a German accent:) "Look at Zeee Mapp!" We make a brief detour to a "suckerseeker" cab handler who want's to too much for the trip to the hotel and insists on deriding the Zoe as a boutique hotel or something less-than-desirable. Yes he is familiar with it, but is it what we really want?

We split up with the Aussie Rowerwoman who views us in some awe for being so adept at skating throughthese sharks. We end up blowing off the suckerseeker taxihandler as a smarmy opportunist (As it turns out we ain't seen nuttin yet...) He had brought us over to the Budget counter explaining that he had a relationship with Budget. It was weird so we went back across the lobby passing yet another cheering group (it hadn't gotten any smaller despite the occassional clapping and many flights coming through). We get to the next tourist info place and call the hotel where Nicole also learns about how much the fare shold be for the trip . We resolve again to go out to the port cachere to find a cab big enough to deal with four passengers and 9 pieces of luggage. It has been an issue much of the trip despite frequent downloads in Philipiines, Bali, and Thailand. We eventually snag a big cab, again have to negotiate a decent price. Once we arrive; the Empress Zoe is a quirky little place situated in the heart of the historic Blue Mosque/ Aya Sofia area. Our room is penthouse suite ( and is a great deal).

To get to the suite is kind of fun; you have to walk up a spiral staircase ( which sucks for the porter BIG TIME), across the landing to another set of stairs then up three flights including a private vestibule of sorts. The view is great as every window provides something. It is warm in the Mediterranean sense, (not the Bangkok sense) and it feels really wonderful. At night the view of the two mosques on the hill behind us are truly remarkable.

February 28 Koh Samui
Again so much has happened it seems to be a constantly shifting fog. I really need to be writing more of it down on a regular basis as there are just so many experiences that on the surface it is really tough to keep up; here’s an effort:
•Bangkok
My original expectations of this bustling city were to be as complex and busy and crowded and paralyzed and overburdened by traffic as Manila. Much of that was due to my mother’s previous experience she relayed to me on many occasions; that among other things it would take an inordinate amount of time to cross town due to so much traffic. While that may be the case, it was not greatly apparent to me. We stay at the Royal River Hotel apparently the place that UN people live when in town. This is a city on a river much like London or Paris but it uses all of its resources for transport especially the rivers and canals as a means of locomotion. We wake up and have breakfast in the hotel and then take the hotel’s ferry up ( or down ) the river to just below Chinatown Chareong Krug area. Of course this is really a shuttle to a mall, a typical Western mall: ac, glass and brass etc ( as if to say “ we really are like you, you prosperous Westerners.” ) In our case though, we are not interested in their ability to emulate our retailing morass, instead we are seeking the Bangkok of character. We beeline directly through the mall (in one door out the other side) and continue toward the Chinatown.
A few words about the architecture: On the boat ride over we must see a complete range of styles from traditional Thai wats (temples) stupa (sacred burial structures) to Rococo houses to traditional teak houses (which are really exquisite) to 40 story office-like buildings that are capped with Capitol (a’la Bulfinch) dome and surrounding colonnade, to renaissance churches with steeples, to minaretted mosques, to modern glass skin to green glassed ultra-modern condos to squatters canal side huts of corrugated galvanized roofing. Well, yes this IS a modern city but the diversity of styles that encompass its face are nothing short of prodigious and it does have some hint into both the cultural influences and the styles that have, over time, taken precedence.
There is something about Asian cities that touches on this myriad of visible influences. Certainly if one visits Shibuya or Hong Kong one sees the graceful blending of bamboo with glass skin, but that juxtaposition transcends functionality; in those cases it Bamboo seems to be more than a temporary support system, it seems to be a connection to a past filled with fundamentals. The Asian city that is Bangkok on the exterior is of course a bustling industrious, in-your-face place, but not in the overt overly advertised way that HK is. It doesn’t seem to be bragging and much of that may be in its Buddhist underpinnings.
The Wat we visit after walking through Chinatown and a brief visit to the highly unusual and underplayed STONE MUSEUM is the Wat Pho, which is a huge complex of temples, but most importantly is the reclining Buddha, which we see unfortunately under scaffolding. It is gilded and absolutely amazing. The exterior is equally amazing with the meticulous placement of gold and a bazillion little pieces of ceramic, which clearly would have taken many people many years to complete. Again, incredible evidence of a highly industrious people.
We find a little café, eat pad thai for the first time in Thailand and as a precursor for the rest of the food here, it is clear we are in for a culinary series of feasts.
We end up taking one of the high-speed longboats (they call them express boats) after playing good cop (me) bad cop (Nicole) with the guy who arranges for the services. Everything here is a managed deal where dickering is both an art and an important protocol. (*You never take the first offer) So after acting like we are not gonna take the boat we get the cost down and take the boat back to the Hotel (it flies back in 10-15 minutes). The Longboat itself also an interesting piece of work. It is about 25 feet long with a very pointy bow and huge diesel truck engine (exposed) in the stern with a twenty-foot drive shaft at the end of it, which extends good ten-twelve feet aft. It too is free moving (or relatively) and is controlled by the helmsmen with a typical outboard tiller extension. But damn do these puppies fly!
Mamou and Deb had gone up to Dusit what seems to be a suburb of Bangkok, or maybe just a section of the town because they were convinced that the morning launch from the Hotel was going to a mall (as was true). But Nicole wanted to get more of a sense of the place and although it was really hot out we thought we would walk over to the grand palace but we really just wanted to get a sense of orientation as to where and what the city was about. It was with this approach that we walked through Chinatown seeing all of these gritty shops bending metal, welding, selling tires, selling engines, food, fish.
•UTAI and the “Tour”
Mamou and Deb arrange for a tour with a wonderful guide named UTAI (hire him when ever you are in town…) he takes us to the summer palace in Ayuthayya the old city that is a very beautiful meditative place. He explains the importance of Buddhism to the culture as an underpinning for a philosophy of life. The Thais are very much in love with their monarchs and the current one is no different. Oxford/ MIT education is not out of the ordinary; this royalty are actively engaged in helping their people. Back from the Ramas (I-VI) there was a great deal of change including opening to the West with all of the positives and negatives that that implies.
Definitely one of the highlights for me was eating COBRA. Yes I ate cobra at a roadside place where only Thais eat. It was interesting but Jesus was it spicy. (Maybe it had to be to mask the contents) Basically I can relate to you that it is very crunchy, but otherwise not very interesting. There is a local drink where they combine thai whisky with the blood of the cobra ( for sexual potency supposedly) didn’t try that but did enjoy a bottle of Spey Royal with Utai after the day was over.
The neighboring Burma has a very rocky relationship with Thailand having basically been a very nasty place for a very long time. Burma has occupied and taken over many times over the last few centuries. Of course they are still very much an evil force as they continue to log illegally hunt elephant illegally and keep pressure on civil rights advocates like Ang San su Kyu. As a military dictatorship these people are so corrupt and hostile it is clearly a place to be avoided.
I finish drinks with Utai and our driver and we will hope to hook up upon our return to Bangkok.
• Chiang Mai
This is a wonderful town in the North. It is from here that we will head to our elephant trek. We settle into the Royal Princess Hotel there and have a great Japanese meal there at the hotel.(best tako I have had in a long while).Chiang Mai is known for some amazing temples and its “night market” which like everywhere else we have been in asia is a selling of chatchkes and textile based goods and entails much negotiation. It is at the night market that we venture into the wild and wooly world of bootleg/pirated DVD’s. We get Harry Potter , Beautiful Mind and Moulin Rouge and try to view them via the laptops at the store. Also at the CD shop Isaac and I meet two Aussies from Melbourne who among other things tell us about Gric an alternative to ATT Worldnet. I will still try to get to it but it seems that for the most part I will wait til we get to Turkey for the new uploads.
•Pom I, our fearless leader.
Now for our trek. It is a very hot time here. We venture by open-but-covered pick-up two hours north to our hiking area in a National Park. Our first stop is a brief Elephant trek along the Mae Mai river and through the paths of surrounding trails. Our trusty steed is named Bagy and the Mahoot who contgrols her is firm but not abusive from what we see. ( later we get the true scoop from Pom as we are directly indoctrinated into an inner circle of elephant stewards). After our token elephant trek we begin our foot borne trek.We hike for a good six hours or so, on the mountains with a valiant job done by my mother who for her (ahem) 39+ years ( she corrects me –37) has here task before her and knapsack behind her. It is a hard won climb but we reach small mountain tribal village Huay Hoi and have a home stay with a young family, the Doh ( or maybe it is the Du ) a father and a mother and a toddler that Isaac plays with very adorably. Also there is his brother and next door the father’s sister. We sleep on the floor in this stilt house which overlooks the haze-covered mountains in the distance. We have traversed mountainsides and fallow rice terraces to get here, alternating between forested areas and walking along channeled irrigation ditches. It is a beautiful place and has an ancient almost sacred feel to it. And like the Cobra eating it feels like there is no one else from the “outside” world there. Like you are going back to a tribal place where the fire outside is an important ward against creatures and harm. It gets cold here on the mountain after the sun sets. And we all cuddle on one-inch thick foam mats and tatami under blankets protected by mosquito netting and rattan walls. The roof is rattan but the floors wide board teak. We all have an amazing Tom Kai Gai made with certain relish by Pom. We are all tired and sated and after a few local beers ready for bed. I am most proud of the kids for their sense of adventure,and specifically for Sasha’s tolerance of different toilet configurations. On our way up I suddenly hit with la tourista and have to find a stump on the trail and palm leaves…. Immediately afterwards, Deb gives me the “easily accessible” lotrimil which puts an end to that.
But there on the top of that hillock on the “outskirts” of Huay Hoi there is a certain degree of peace ( despite the persistence of the everpresent stray dogs one of which we call “scrappy”—what a mangey creature). And this peace will stay with us in memory. It is in marked difference to the struggle of the Philippines and it is noted by among others Sasha in her sense of the people and their sense of both themselves and their lives. Later, I have to get up to pee and end up talking with Pom late into the night before the dwindling fire. She begins to tell me about the Burmese there brutal occupations and mistreatment of the forests and the elephants. It quickly becomes clear that I have found someone with a strongly voiced passion. Granted it is late and she has had a few beers but she is adamant about the mistreatment of these proud, intelligent and mighty creatures. The elephant, she tells me, are the great symbol of the Thai people especially these tribal ( Karen) people. But now with around three thousand left it is a bleak struggle to keep a healthy population. Again, an expectation of mine ( and Isaac’s) was to see elephants who could paint, play music etc. This turns out to be a bit more than circus tricks which is at the core of the basic detestation of mistreatment.
So Pom, a college grad with a BA in Philosophy, is a proud trek guide who knows her territory both flora and fauna and is fast becoming a major follower of “Lek” her boss who runs a group which tries to help the elephants by establishing a park for them to run freely in. While we don’t get a chance to go to the Park we do go to a nursery where a few beautiful young British female volunteers are caring for a young male Elephant named King Mai who was trapped between two trees and severly wounded by being held between them. They seem to have successfully nursed him back to health and it is nothing short of inspirational. These are caring, dedicated folks and here in the small “nursery” area next to Lek’s sister’s house this small group of dedicated women live and watch over the lame creatures. It is here also that we meet up with Amanda a Brit expat living in Northern California who is trying to set up the financial backbone of the organization.
The night before, Pom is pleading with me to find a way to buy one of these elephants, to in essence rescue it from the brutal treatment by its’ keeper a Mahoot. Being a mahoot is a strictly male profession and therefore exclusive; the mahoot skills for commandeering an elephant is a profession with deep roots so we are talking about uprooting a family-based economic engine to buy an elephant. There is pride involved both with the tradition of elephant handling ( within a family)and in the income the partnership can provide. So it is a touchy careful process to figure out a “substitute” wage-earning tradition that can free up these elephants.
The problem works on many fronts: one is the economics ( the family-run business –logging, trekking are very lucrative) but the creatures are worked way too hard by the Mahoots and chained for very limited mobility. Mother and child are often separated far too early for it to be healthy for with mother or child. (Mother’s are often talked about in terms of heartbreak as form of fatality due to the premature separation ( two months) of the offspring). Pom and Amanda both tell me of cases where the elephants are worked basically around-the-clock for tourist trekking. Of course I begin to feel weird about having been on a Symbolic hour-long trek with the elephants, but aparently Pom has selected Mahoots that are the least problematic. Anyway, it is an issue that sits heavily with me as I return to bed warmed with knowledge about elephants, their plight with tourism ( the economic salvation of the world), and fire in Polm’s belly about changing things and making them better. The embers at the fire are on their last legs as I bid Pom a good night.
• Huay Pon
The next day after much photos with everyone and polaroids taken and left by Mamou for the villagers, I decide to stay a bit and paint an image of Pom and Coconut (our helper) continue the discussion with Pom about how we can help her and then Mamou et al go with Coconut to visit the local village school. Pom and I will catch up with them. It is Sunday, but the local kids have come to the school to watch tv.
I had been to the little tribal village the night before with Coconut a very clever and skilled trekker but also one who loves his drink. ( He has the B.O. of a serious alcy and Pom and I touch on this as we both strongly favor AFTER hour inebriants and not during , but whatever.) Coconut is particularly kind to Isaac building him a bamboo pop gun which is a constant great toy the whole trip. His English is partially inebriately and in his own mind it is as clear as day. But to us who is communicating with it is far from clear…. He points out edible seeds to me as we hike and other things. The trek is ardous in the heat but we eventually come to a wonderful Waterfall which is also peppered by a travelling Korean TaeKwan Do group who overtakes us on our way over the reice terraces.
The falls are great and as a watering hole it is a great place for a swim. Of course it is stillhot as hell so it doesn’t take long before we are drenched again with sweat.
Together with Pom we decide that we are all wimpy trekkers so we will end up back at the same place that we started at and simply stay there instead. This is the little town of Huay Pon which is filled with all sorts of human drama. At the end of a second swimming hole/waterfall we get shuttled again back to Huay pon passing a funeral for a Buddhist Monk which entails cremation and fireworks.
“The People of these Northern tribes like the Karen,” instructs Pom, “are of the belief that setting off fireworks helps the spirit into the next life faster; we in the South contend that it burns them up and brings them to a place of fire…” There is a big celebration surrounding the Monk’s death and according to Pom, it is seen as a great opportunity for some young people to get married: “It is as if a place has opened up,”she says.
Huay Pon has a great country feel to it. Of course this too can be interrupted. As I sit at the General Store/ restaurant/ main supply station/ gas station getting some water and painting some portraits of the locals including the father of the house across the street that we will be staying at a young Wahoo comes up is sweating profusely, drinking Red Bull ( an energy drink) and clearly speeding his ass off. It takes a little while to understand this because I am not sure if it is because of drink that he is so vocal and gesticulating wildly or because of some other thing. He mostly stays away, but Nicole and Sasha are a bit freaked out by his loudness which is very atypical here in Asia so they go across the street to examine where we will be staying. ( On the floor again as it turns out—which again is amazingly commendable for Mamou and Debou for the resilience) .
Anyway the speed freak is walking up and down the main street here. While the rafters of one of the house catty corner is occasionally lighting up because some one is welding something in the front of the house. ( I can’t see what it is and am way too tired to go over and see, besides I am onto a beer at this point and the painting is going well.) Then the silence is again broken , but this time it is not the original speed freak, it is someone a bit younger and further down the street. He is carrying on screaming and crying yelling invectives back across the street to a reciepient that is as yet is unknown. This continues to brew for about twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, Pom is cooking again in the kitchen and eventually she reaches a point where something is simmering and she comes out and has a bit of beer and explains what is going on. It is a son who is screaming at his father for being a speed freak; he has just returned home from examinations at school to find his father stoned and dancing around the house like a crazy person and so the son has just finally lost it. A bottle is heard breaking, the son is ramping up is hostility, he is crying and screaming fast losing his voice, now sobbingly repeating undiscernible statements flailing his arms as other villagers separate the two and the father returns to his house. Eventually ( I am later told it is his “Auntie”) who takes him to her house, he is distraught with that pained look on his face that reminds me of that fateful image of the Cambodian police officer who is shooting his handcuffed student victim pointblank in the head during the Vietmnam debacle.
The villagers have been observing quietly from the sidelines mostly non-plussed some a little amused in an Asian way as this poor young man has clearly lost his composure( not a typical scene); others desperately trying to ignore the scene and put a good face on. In any event it is a distressing scene. The next day, in the paper the Princess is seen discussing drug abuse specifically amphetamines in small communities so it is clearly on everyone’s mind.
The original speed Freak has settled into watching the tv with the shop owner ( a wonderful looking gentleman65-70 who the next day is seen in his pajamas for the better part of the morning sweeping up and preparing vegetables for the day ‘s meals)and it is THAI BOXING which has totally captivated everyone. The speed Freak is acting it out with all of the correct moves mirroring the gestures on the tube. He is careful not to engage eye-to-eye with us and when he does his head cocks slightly to the side like a bemused but curious dog.
Later that evening, having just started the dinner that Pom had been preparing, A farang from Oregon stops by the table in the front of the General Store. He is a pleasant enough chap who informs us that he thought we might be Americans and was desparate to speak English after not being able to for a while. As it turns out he is a sniper by training and has been on the Burmese border working with the Karen as apart of a special Ops force. We have long conversations about his various tours of duty including his demoing of laser-guided attack system from an F-18 to the Israeli army. He is also a fascinating example of the caring military man. Maybe. As he presents himself, he is retired lives in a nearby town, is paid by the US 4000bt/month which here he says goes a long way. He is married to a Thai woman very pretty, very fit and has a myriad of kids maybe ten or so. It is not exactly clear because they may not be kids that he personally fathered but has adopted as was the case for one, a teenage boy, who he had rescued as a part of a recent op where he had been asked by the birth parents to take care of the boy because they couldn’t. The bright-eyed boy was deemed to be “slow” but Sean, the new father, wasn’t really too sure about the boy as he had been with the family only about a week and really didn’t know him. Typical of one who had been “in country” for so long he is filled with stories of combat and of being in charge of training for so many years. He is on first name basis with many of the Burmese generals, and the Karen generals as well I am sure. But in many ways the guy seems to be a complex individual. As soon as he can he tells me about a locally available analgesic with an opiated root something akin to percoset which is available over the counter. He tells me this and relishes a quick memory of the feeling. “take one of these little babies with a beer and you’ll sleep like a baby, he opines. “You must have some intensely bad dreams,” I suggest. “Some I care not to revisit,” he responds. I can just imagine.
He goes on to tell about suturing up his right hand after he follows a guy who explodes bamboo mine which pierces his hand. The other guy had to be evacuated as his legs had some serious problems. He said he put on betadine ( like iodine) but other than that had no painkiller and was “crying like a baby” as he perfomed surgery on himself. Later as we are smoking ganja in his fortified rollbar reinforced pick up, he doesn’t hesitate to show me where a bullet had gone between his quadraceps and splits his humerus into seventeen pieces and then exits. This meeting is as rivetting as it is oddly eccentric. I mean here I am in an obscure little village with one of the only other Americans I have seen in a while, and he is from a world so diversely remote from mine. If left to his own resources he’d retire to the Cascades where he grew up. “Just me and my horse and a tent,” he says. A hard, lonely course but the only way to survive in the US on a military pension.
This is a more compassionate version of the soldier of fortune one hears about living in the outback in Idaho, hating every government, every Jew, hating every Catholic. Of course this is not the latter as he confesses to having never met a Jew before. A part of me wants to believe this guy. He is my age, with many more kids than I and as a result much more responsibilities. His choices seem so much more intense and his world view is a combination of extreme naivete and highly refined sense of survival. I guess the same could be said of me. When regarding things military I am largely at a loss, although I do have leadership, team-building skills, but as for a built-in sense of self preservation I have that; but being in combat situations nothing could be more foreign to me.
His military choice comes after losing a job as a Ranger fighting fires and hooks into the military as a career. Now, he contends he is one of the last to truly get his pension as to be eligible today means a kind of self flagellation to get to the end of your tour. (30 years). He comes from a poor background and now near Chiang Mai lives very well, owns his own house ( albeit is in town to fill up on water as the water at his place is bad), and has what he needs.
The night is peppered with strange asides from Pom who clearly doesn’t trust this guy. When he speaks to her in Thai ( in which he is clearly fluent) she can be discerned to be correcting him and ultimately asks specifically to be spoken to in English ( a clear rebuff to him). His t-shirt is written in Karen which is highly unusual and in English as well declaring something about fighting to help the Karen people which before Pom had been clearly interested in supporting as it was a Karen village that we had stayed in. I just think she didn’t trust the guy on a variety of fronts including the drug side which she herself is very skeptical of. She was worried that I was going to go into a dealing partnership or something with this guy which of course was about as far from what I wasw interested as was possible. He does explain explicit ways to avoid drug police at border/airports specifically about dogs and I am sure this was deeply distrubing to her. ( To me all I could think of was “Wait Until dark….”)
LEK
It gets really cold here too and this time not much in the way of blankets—and with the wide range of temperatures I am just not prepared.

Feb 20 Bangkok
We arrived last night in Bangkok and to our Hotel ( the Royal River Hotel) and crash in a major way which after nine days in Bali and before that the in and out of aircon in Manila/Bali I get serioulsy screwed up nasal congestion. ( Shades of Hong Kong ca., 1995) Couple that with a little La Turista from Ubud and four dives to 13 meters and two flights to get here and my head is totally into the pseudofed. So about eight to ten pills of that and three cipros and four antidiarrheals I am in Bangkok and all systems are functioning. More about Bangkok soon, first a bit about BALI:
•Bali
There is a reason that everyone thinks of this place as paradise. Our first hotel is a sister hotel to the one we stayed at in Melbourne, ( The Windsor –which Isaac relentless keeps reminding us--) and everything about the Oberoi Bali worked for us to a “T”. You enter and it is like those early episodes of the newcomers to Paradise Island (boss da plane da plane) where the sarong –cladded and headbanded servants greet you out of your transport from the airport with leis out of tuberosa and frangiapani. The smells here are the beginning of our entry into a different sensience. It is perfumed by the everpresent offerings which are everywhere: in front of shops to bring good luck, on the roadside to bring good travel, to footsteps of temples to pathways at the little dive center in the remote village of Tulumben on the west coast. The offerings contain flowers pieces of rice some flavored, some not, tiny pieces of fruit, and almost always incense (which we used to call “punks” for some reason). I mention the smell because of all of the senses that have been aroused by this trip nothin is more ethereal than that of smell. And the trip has been punctated by them. I dinstinctly remember a dinner in Manila along the waterfront which by itself was quaint and pleasing like that of Sai Kung where we walked up to the tank of the sea creatures to choose exactly who we were abou to consume; but as a hot and sultry evening, almost in the shadow of the infamous Manila Hotel where many dignataries have stayed, there was the occasional fetid stench emanating from beneath us on the wharf below. As it was a relatively still night, the occasional breeze would blow the funk away but it really did little to change the lastingness of this fleeting memory sensation. There’s also the eucalyptus of Australia which had overwhelming connections to California and desiel fumes aboard the Star Ferry crossing Victoria Harbor.
But the Balinese edition with incense everywhere repeated every so often reminded me frequently, in retrospect that someone was giving thanks or making a wish and this was to some degree reassuring.
Bali is a very religious country. Apparently there are more temples there per capita than anywhere else and it certainly looks like it. The temples are everywhere in peoples back yards, on the roads, between shops in resorts, on the beach, everywhere. And the famous good-natured quality of the people (except for the aggressive “you want transport?”) who greet you with a smile, makes me say OK CREWE HEAR THIS: THIS IS THE PLACE TO GO TO….
At the Oberoi I meet Nyoman Kantor an incredible EGG Artist who paints beautifully on goose eggs. I didn’t get a chance to buy one of his eggs but I will via the magic of the internet and hopefully I would like to bring his work to the US as maybe a collaboration. The symbolic nature of telling a visual story on an egg appealed greatly to me as it seemed almost metaphoric to me in the notion of the new direction of my artwork. What it will ultimately become, I don’t know yet, but I am working on some installation ideas where maybe I would design something for the surface of the eggs that Nyoman will transcribe….
We try to chill for a day or two as the trip from Manila took us through five countries: Phil; HK;Thai;Singap and finally Bali. ( all of those legs do not make a man healthy wealthy or wise, well maybe wise.)
From Legian we ventured up to Ubud which was much more the heart and soul of Bali’s commercial backbone; it is here that stores sell what the families of craftspeople sell. Actually they seem to sell everywhere and constantly, but as our few off- the central area trips provided, we visited the wood carvers and the painters and bought a lot of traditional pieces based in large part on the indigenous dance. In Ubud, we stayed at the Ubud Inn where every night we were lulled to sleep by some kind of toad who sounded ( as Nicole described it) like a “babywetme” doll from childhood. There is a strong contingent of kids there who emulate dreads and hang out at the local rasta like bar and I am not sure if they are stuck in the late seventies still watching “The Harder They Come” every night. But in one of them I did actually score my first REMEDY which to all of those connoisseurs out there was nothing to write home about except for the fact that I found some which certainly took the edge off. Now for some in Ko Samui….
I actually did get one time to paint after meeting another painter on my solo walk ( I had split up from Nicole, Deb and Mamou who were on a shop spree) and being inspired, not so much for the work although the process is lengthy, committed and methodical and is explained by yet an other artist who visits our room and sells me two traditional ink and gold leaf drawings. They begin with pencil drawing which may tell the story of the rice planting season and then they carefully trace over the pencil in ink and then fill in the drawings with acrylic color. They are subtle but in many cases static because of their regularity.
Anyway, I did find a bit of solace under a small temple-like structure at the Ubud in to do a watercolor of the exquisite lily ponds surrounding the structure. It was peaceful, meditative and one of the only times thus far that I haven’t been moving or image-making on my feet. The contemplative side of it gave a serenity to my focus which as I am totally overwhelmed by the amount of cultural information ( overload) in the last two months this was needed if only for a mere hour. In fact as I write this, it too is a certain respite from the throngs down below in Bangkok and even the fam as they are in other rooms doing other things….(when traveling these moments are cherished)
Charlie- the surf in Legian is awesome. I body surfed awhile, met a guy who studied Computer Sc in Pittsburgh at CMU and lives in Honshu.
• Tulumben
We go to the little remote town of Tulumben to finish our dive course with Sasha and my four open dives. I speak with the American who runs Scuba Duba Doo out of Kuta Beach, Malachy McCourt only to realize that he is the son of the writer and the nephew of Frank, but alas the drink to be had with him never happened: Hey Malachy—Next time!!! ( and there will be a next time). We had an awesome tutor and guide, Asril, last name I never got but we played each other guitar music which was also great fun. He is studying to go into a masters program in Holland, I think, which will combine environmental sciences and their impact on tourism and vice versa. I had told both him and Malachy that I was looking for the specific sea slug: Hexabrachea anguineus ( The spanish Dancer) but we didn’t see one but did see many others which was a total blast. Also seen: multi-coloured ribbon eel ( beautiful bright cobalt blue with bright bright yellow stripes) a huge pipefish, a large Fugu and some exquite Moorish Idols and Banner fish as well as a wall of a school of grunts. Unlike the great Barrier reef this reef was a species that you could see was absolutely flourishing. Huge morays and a lionfish off of the wreck the USS Liberty, WWII vessel which has been deposited to become a glorious reef of its own. So, IN a word Sasha and I are officially PADI certified Divers! ( Yippee) Yeah Jon Davis we’re going in Woods Hole….)
Mamou and Deb decide to return to Ubud and we stay in Tulumben at Paradise Dive center an inexpensive place with Japanese and Dutch divers who apparently had been there before because Asril counted them as friends. They and Dave from Queechee, VT would give us helpful hints about breathing and gear. Dave was particularly kind to Isaac as he lent him a few dvd’s to watch while we went diving.
Isaac and Nicole definitely deserve kudos for putting up with this section of Bali. For Nicole it was me and my snoring ( at this point in Bali my sinuses were staging a massive revolt and into the night my digestive system chimed in repeatedly and my sleepless wife helped me through it by guiding me to the well-apportioned medical kit deep into the night. ( Thanks again Nicole and remotely-- Toni). For Isaac it was going to a distant place being there in the rain and not being old enough to dive. But thanks to Dave and Harry Potter he got through it.
•Barong ,Kris Dances and the Artisans
These monsters in the dances. These spirits which so captivated Juli Taymor and other before me. They have permeated my psyche since I was a little boy. My earliest memory was waking from a nightmare with characters which were very much, it turns out thanks to this part of the trip, in the form of the barong and the giant ChukChuk. We go to many of these dances and I am transfixed by their simplicity, their use of slapstick and the power of the masks and striped pageantry. I can’t help but feel a unique parity with the inflatable costumes—that those designs come from this ancient place and that I somehow hit into a vein of it. We didn’t buy any of those masks of the wild-eyed barong, but on our way back from the cloud enshrouded volcano ( we couldn’t see Diddley) we stopped at a wood carving families studio and boght a sculpted mask fashioned out of a root. It was one of the more inspired pieces we had seen primarily because it used the organic form to lead the carver with an insect- bored out hole for the mouth and and a knot for one of the eyes. It showed the artist making a vision beyond the traditional work that all of the carvers seemed to be doing. There are places along the roads that stock a gazillion of the same things, even African masks and Digideroo which is oddly strange and had us thinking out loud –“ what do they do go to festivals or shows where they discuss what moved this year and decide to make more of those for next year? Jesus, what an invnetory…” It is still hard to have an original vision in the land of the talented craftsmen. Apparently a German man came to the island identified its strength of character as its craft and transformed the country into a craft/culture building center. The standard of living here seems higher thatn in the remote regions of let’s say Philippines.
Back to the dances. One morning we head out with our wonderful driver, Mario and go to a Kris Dance in which one a series of characters somehow become immortal and when the band of characters tries at one point to kill themselves are unable to. ( that is a terrible explaination, but trying to transcribe the real version would make you nuts too.) It is a huge open hall ( similar to the ones that are in temple grounds and in everytown) suitable for the throngs of tourists that (used to) pass through. The Gamelan orchestra is great ( the gong player doesn’t miss a beat when lighting his cigarette) but the sky opens up and the play goes on including the customary mention of the few word in English that have seemed to permeate every performance ( including puppet shows) we see: “You want transport? Today special price….!”
The First dance we see in Ubud is at night and in it the villain or comic relief speaks English something about how villainous Osama Bin Laden is…. It makes Mamou and Debou uncomfortable. We didn’t get a gamelan, and I should have but I do have contact there now and will definitely make it a point to return. The gamelan is a great meditative hypnotic sound.
We all left the Oberoi yesterday with pangs of sadness, that we had just begun to settle into a place that was appealling to us all; that had something for everyone, that we did just seem to touch the surface of. Like putting one’s finger into a stagnant pool—You can see into its further reaches and if you peer closely you can see microorganisms teeming,but your finger has left resonance creating nodal waves which to some degree become harmonious and yet they are just the beginning of the echo, just the some of the first things you see and smell.

Aya Sofia Sultanahmet, Istanbul: This was the view as you lay down in bed and, of course, beautifully lit at night...

Nyoman Kantor, Egg Painter

Legian, Bali

This is a traditional image with Balinese firgures first inked then painted in acrylic, brilliantly packaged in crush-proof palm frond packaging. These are truly exquisite goose eggs.

Barong Dancer,Bali

Enroute From Bankok to Singapore; and then from Singapore to Denspasar, Bali

February 11. Gung hay fat choy!? ( happy new years, I think)

For all of you who have been dutifully following along as we stumble through South East Asia, I am finally catching up with some of the images and video. We have some amazing footage in video especially the stay with Kidlat, his very gracious and kind family in Baguio, the Tuding group. Combined with our retun trip from Banaue's rice terraces in Northern Luzon, I have still another camera full I have just downloaded as this third flight of four today is not very full and I am spread out here in a middle row with two laptops on both sides of me, downloading the images from Banaue on one and writing to you on another

So yeah great. Pitchas. But when are WE ( meaning you,dear readers) gonna see them. Again soon. Denspasar and Ubud will be places of chill as the last two days of 12 hour travel/ day is exhausting. We'll be in bali for Nine days. And like my toast last night at the Cowrie Grill at the Manila Hotel,Bali has been a long time fascination to me both as an exotic desitination filled with amazing cultural differences, theatrical traditions most unlike my own Western understanding and influences on artists/heros like Julie Taymor. But first a recap of the complex place called the Philippines:

Since I was a child I had always wanted to go to the place where the guy who lived up stairs lived. We arrived in Manila about a week ago. It is an ugly dirty totally overpopulated, congestion city filled with deep contradictions both politcally and socially. The very rich right next to the absolute destitute. And like many of the descriptions one hears about strife-ridden areas like this there is a certain underlying pacifity.