The Flying Boys of Costa Maya

Tags

Costa Maya, Danza de los Voladores, Flying boys, Mayan customs, Mexico

 Recently I went with two friends on a cruise of the Western Caribbean. It was my first cruise, and was an eye-popping experience, from the the size of the ship (1,112 feet

long) to the enormous quantities of very good food provided daily, to the variety of entertainment on board (an ice show! imagine!! It was a really excellent one, too!!!), and the variety of excursions we were offered on shore.

Our second stop was in Costa Maya on the Yucatan peninsula of Mexico.

Recently a port was built to accommodate cruise ships, which includes a shopping village, and which is a jumping off point for excursions to some delicious less-developed Mayan ruin sites such as Chacchoben, which we visited. The Mayan ruins are a subject for several other posts – they are as fascinating as they are ancient and mysterious.

As you can see from the Google Earth screenshot above (thank you G.E.) the area around the cruise port is sparsely developed.  There’s been more growth lately, but so far most of it is centered around cruise ship arrivals and tourist dollars. (That off-center T in the water is the cruise ship dock.) I gather when there are no cruise ships the little village is closed up. It does not seem to be much used by locals.

This faux village has a central square, and in the middle of the square is a 30 meters tall pole with climbing rungs. Wikipedia gives a detailed account of the history of the Danza de los Voladores (Dance of the Flyers). It originated some hundreds of years ago at a time of great drought. The ceremony was developed to appease the gods and bring back the rain.

The dance is usually performed by five young men (the ones we saw were ‘apprentices,’ aged 18-22, but they looked pretty darn professional to us. Six marched in, four climbed the pole). They march into the square, one of them playing a small flute and banging a teeny drum (note the yellow cords hanging down).

Then they begin to climb the pole. This is heart-stopping – it seems impossible that they can climb so high, and that they can perch on the teeny structure at the top, which can revolve.

Once they are at the top they haul up their ropes in a very particular way and wrap them around the pole. Then four of them address the cardinal points of the compass, while the fifth stands in the middle. In our instance there were only four, and they all flew.

The four tied their ropes to their legs and stepped into space, slowly spinning around the pole as they descended in a stately and controlled manner. Impossibly, the drummer/ flute player continued to play both instruments as he flew down.

It is done in a very particular way. They must circle the pole exactly thirteen times. Thirteen times four (number of flyers) = fifty-two, the number of years in the ‘calendar round’ (see the Wikipedia article for more detail). Here they are, gracefully descending.

I apologize for not getting them all the way down for you, my camera ran out of battery (grrrrr).

It was an amazing thing to see, looking far simpler than it is, I think. The Danza de los Voladores has been named an Intangible Cultural Heritage by Unesco in 2009. As a result, the Mexican government has a responsibility to protect and promote the Dance. If you have a chance to see it, don’t miss it.

A Short Travelogue

Tags

Adam, Adam Opel, German food, Russelsheim

Last week we took a leisurely trip from Arizona back home to Italy – if any travel these days can be called ‘leisurely’ which, according to me, it cannot. In any event, with the help of good friends at both ends we were able to complete our travels in a mere four days.

But wait – before telling you about it, I want to give a shout out to Lufthansa Airlines.  While American Airlines is always our airline of choice (and those who know us understand why), we were given some exceptional service by Lufthansa, and not for the first time. After checking our two bags for a pair of flights from Frankfurt, Germany, to Pisa, Italy, via Munich, we discovered going through security that we would have to check one of our backpacks as well (it was the good German tinned meat and mustard that did us in). In our haste we forgot to mention to the agent that the backpack was also to go on from Munich to Pisa. Whether it was an agent or ‘the system’ we don’t really know, but the backpack arrived in Pisa with our other two bags – which I find completely amazing, as we had never mentioned it was to go beyond Munich. What a relief, as it contained many of my important items.

Anyway, after enjoying stellar company on the crossing from Dallas-Fort Worth to Frankfurt, we took a short train ride to nearby Russelsheim where we had booked a room at the Arona Hotel. Russelsheim is best known for being the home of Adam Opel auto manufacturing, founded in 1862, which, since the 1930’s, has been a part of General Motors.

There is a small showroom just down the street from this statue of Adam Opel where you can learn the history of the car-maker and see some cars, both old and new.

 

Above is the Adam model, and it’s cute as a button. If you’re interested in a short video showing present-day Opel construction, you can see it here – I especially like the paint bath.

A less savory part of the town’s past is known as the “Russelsheim Massacre.” In August, 1944, townspeople mistook eight American prisoners, taken when their B24 Liberator was shot down near Hanover, for the Canadians who had carpet-bombed Russelsheim the night before. The Americans were being transported to a POW camp and had to walk through town to get from one train to another. Angry townspeople lined the streets as the Americans were marched through, and two women began to scream “Tear them to pieces! Beat them to death!” In spite of one of the airmen saying, in German, “It wasn’t us!” some citizens answered the angry call, attacking the airmen with sticks, shovels, hammers, stones and iron bars. Six of the airmen were executed by an armed air-raid warden who lined them up and shot them after they were beaten nearly to death. He had only six bullets; the last two men were able to drag themselves to the River Main when an air-raid siren sounded, sending the mob to shelters. They were recaptured in a few days and taken to the POW camp.

The perpetrators of the massacre were brought to trial in 1945 when the atrocity came to light. Eventually six townspeople were hanged; the two women who instigated the riot were given thirty-year prison terms. Interestingly, it was Leon Jaworski, of Watergate fame, who asserted individual responsibility be assigned for the crime.

The town has changed enormously in the intervening years, of course. There is a considerable middle-eastern influence, from clothing shops to kebap restaurants. In spite of being part of the German Miracle, the town looked rather tired and run-down. There was much more litter than we’re accustomed to seeing anywhere in Germany, empty shops, and signs that all is not well economically.

It’s not all doom and gloom, however. One thing that struck me is that the town clearly supports the arts. There are many fountains and statues to be found:

I especially like this one as the bull snorts water out of his nostrils about every thirty seconds (look closely, he’s doing it now).

In the 1500’s, upstream river traffic was managed by horses which pulled the boats. This statue is in homage to the horses and the rivermen who rode them backwards keeping a watchful eye on the traffic.

This is both a fountain and a very tall statue with lots of little faces and symbols of various industries. We couldn’t quite figure it out.

Because it was a factory town, Russelsheim suffered considerable bomb damage during World War II. While there are still a few old structures to be seen, most are modern. There is an appealing sense of whimsy to some of the modern buildings.

In spite of evident economic woes, there are still many vibrant shops open, including two of our favorites: the meat market and the bakery:

Don’t they just make your mouth water??

And the things we love about Germany were available in abundance. We found a nice little bar/restaurant near the river where we enjoyed a bit of pre-dinner imbibing. The sun was out, and so were the locals, soaking it up.

 

And dinner!  What a treat. It is asparagus season in Germany – in fact, we arrived smack in the middle of the month-long Asparagus Festival. I’ve never eaten blanched asparagus before. While it has all the characteristics of its green self (!) it is milder in all respects (!!). Here is my first ever, blanketed in hollandaise and paired with crispy schnitzel:

In the background you can see Speedy’s schnitzel buried under cheese.

It all gave us fortification for the next day when we took the aforementioned two Lufthansa flights, followed by a train trip back to Rapallo. We were quickly above the clouds, but before we left Germany she gave us a farewell treat, an aerial view of her fields in their springtime garb. Thus we made the transition from the brown spring of Arizona, punctuated as it is with vibrant cactus flowers, to the spring of northern Europe, where there are more shades of green than Crayola has words for.

Full, tired and happy, we settle back into life in beautiful Rapallo:

 

Hard Landing

Tags

culture shock

Once again, as every year, culture shock has blind-sided me.  Yes, it is gorgeous here (see above) and yes, it is warm (even hot) and dry.  But it’s not Italy, is it?  Sounds so obvious, but somehow it takes me aback annually.  In fairness, I have to say that there will be a repeat of culture shock, in reverse, when we return to Rapallo in April or May.

But just what is the shock?  Size is one thing – everything is so darn big here.  When it comes to living quarters, I like that.  When it comes to servings when eating out I don’t.  Cars? no.  Sense of humor? yes.  Noise is another thing: there are non-stop sounds in Rapallo; scooters dash up and down the mountain, dogs bark non-stop, the rooster who can’t tell time crows his ignorance, diners clink their cutlery against their plates at Rosa’s and even, if they’ve had enough, break into song or begin to cheer loudly. Over at Case di Noe someone has fired up a brush-cutter, and every half hour the church bells remind us what time it is. (Speedy has addressed this part of the problem by down-loading chimes to sound the hours on the computer – not the same as the jazzy bell concert San Maurizio gives us each Sunday, but better than nothing.)

There are plenty of noisy places in the U.S., but we don’t happen to be in one of them.  Our neighborhood has forty homes, of which probably one-third are occupied now, it being still early in ‘the season.’  The family with small children who lived across the street have moved – how we miss their constant activity and cheerful little voices.  If we listen carefully we can hear the hum of traffic from the highway that’s about a mile away.  When the birds visit our feeders they are likely to squabble.  The humming birds sound like teeny little power saws when they zoom in and out.  But mostly it’s just very quiet and peaceful.  That’s nice, it really is, it’s just such a change.

The biggest change, though, and the hardest to adapt to, is the societal difference.  Italians are out and about for a good part of the day.  One must shop daily, the passagiata awaits at the end of the day.  There are friends and family to visit and ‘news’ to be discussed endlessly.  The silence in our neighborhood is but a reflection of a larger silence that I think of as particularly American.  People are afraid to discuss ‘issues’ for fear that they will offend or anger the person to whom they’re speaking. Somehow Italians have found a way to express differences without letting it get personal, and without letting it get in the way of friendships.  Here people are afraid to make eye contact with strangers, unlikely to greet strangers on the street (any one of whom may be carrying a weapon, concealed or otherwise, at least here in the wild west), and uncomfortable with the idea of discomfort.

Of course Italy is far from perfect.  But part of culture shock, I think, is the tendency to idealize the place one has left, to look back through the fuzzy lens of rosy glasses, while looking at present circumstances with the critical lens of a microscope.

I’m not asking for sympathy, believe me.  We are terribly fortunate to be able to enjoy life in two such diverse places, and yes, we are Thankful that we are able to (’tis the season).  I’m just saying that the transition is, for me at any rate, difficult, but difficult in an interesting way, not a painful way.  So please, stick with me for a while?  Pretty soon I’ll have my feet under me again and will share some more of the excitement of life in a most peculiar state.

Roissy

Tags

CDG, Charles de Gaulle Airport, Chez Cri-Cri, Hotel Campanile, Laying over in Paris, Paris Airport Stay, Pomme d'Or, Roissy, Roissy-en-France, Saint Eloi (Roissy)

Daniel Dambreville, the charming publican of Chez Cri-Cri in Roissy, told us that 165,000 people pass through Charles deGaulle Airport every day.  CDG is a major hub for visitors to Paris as well as those traveling on to the rest of the world. Opened it 1974, it is Europe’s second busiest airport, after London’s Heathrow.  It covers 12.5 square miles over 6 communes, one of which is Roissy.  The airport’s location was plucked from a dwindling amount of undeveloped land around Paris in the mid-1960’s, and it has been a boon to the formerly sleepy little communes it occupies.

One-quarter of the airport lies in Roissy-en-France (in fact the airport is also known as ‘Roissy’).  To the town’s great benefit the airport has to pay taxes and so forth for the land it occupies.   This works out very well for the roughly 2,500 residents of this still largely agricultural town.  Monsieur Dambreville told us that in addition to the handsome public garden and a modern and very active cultural center, L’Orangerie, the income from the airport and its satellite hotels allows the town to offer a free vacation every year to residents. (This, by the way, is not that uncommon in Europe.  Our Dutch friend tells us that in the Netherlands the elderly and the blind are regularly treated to a small holiday; in our own Rapallo the elderly used to be taken for a week’s holiday in the mountains – a practice abandoned during the current fiscal crisis). And not only do they get a holiday – they also get free heat and free potatoes – all the potatoes they can eat!  Wouldn’t that be great??!

The point of all this is to say that it’s great fun to stay over in Roissy if Paris, or a change at CDG, is in your travel plans.  It’s a small village, but there are at least nine very comfortable hotels.  We stayed in The Campanile, a centrally-located three-star with shuttle service to and from the airport.  “Centrally-located” is relative – Roissy is not large, and there are not a lot of non-hotel amenities in the village.  The aforementioned Chez Cri-Cri is a lovely place to stop in for a beer and a chat.

If you’re there at mid-day you can have lunch as well.

Photo courtesy of Clicsouris

Next door to Chez Cri-Cri is the elegant little gem, Saint Eloi.  It was built around 1650 on the site of a 12th century church which itself was built atop the remains of an ancient shrine (7th – 10th century).

As you can tell, we were there at night, so we were unable to get inside to see the 16th century restored stained glass windows from the inside (restored in 1984), the organ (acquired in 1989 by the municipality – thank you CDG) and the tombs of   Jehan Sauvage and his wife Perrette de Thyois:

Photo courtesy of Clicsouris

Across from our hotel we found the seemingly charming restaurant Pomme d’Or:

Under different management it would have been a pleasure to eat there.  The hostess was barely polite; she gave us food because she was obliged to.  When, for instance, I asked her how old the building was she said she didn’t know.  Nonsense.  She said I could photograph inside the restaurant, but couldn’t take her picture.  Fair enough.  So I took this picture of our chicken cooked in beer, which sounded heavenly:

The farfalle were overcooked and completely cold.  The chicken was tepid.  Let’s just say it wasn’t the best eating-out experience we’ve ever had.  They put together a nice cheese plate for dessert, though – hard to ruin good French cheese:

As Speedy said, next time we layover in Roissy we’ll eat in one of the hotels, since Cri-Cri doesn’t serve dinner.  Too bad, because the locals hang out there.

We chatted briefly with this gentleman; what he really wanted to know was how old Speedy is.

Last time we passed through CDG it was a madhouse; there was practically grid-lock of passengers and luggage trying to navigate the terminal.  There was none of that this time.  For whatever reason everything seemed to be working very well.  We had made a point of avoiding the airport because of the crowds and hassel, but having discovered the delights of Roissy-en-France and finding the airport more efficient, we’ll be sure to pass through again.

The Vagabond Niece

Tags

Back-packing through Europe, Hosteling, Katie Powell, Molly Jenkins, Vagabonds, Wandering

The education we began with Wijnand Boon (see last post) continued recently with the visit of our grand-niece Katie and her friend Molly.  We were their last stop on a three-month tour of Eastern Europe (Germany, Poland, Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Bosnia, Croatia, Hungary, Slovakia, Turkey).  Like Boon they are back-packers, but unlike him they use public transportation, having been on boats, planes, trains, buses and one hot-air balloon in the course of their journey.  They looked like giant turtles when they arrived, with large packs on their backs and small packs on their fronts. I felt we were their half-way house between the uncertainties of a foot-loose life and the restrictions of life and work back in the States.

There is a saying here that Americans live to work, but Italians work to live. We felt that Katie and Molly exemplify the Italian approach to life.  They love to travel (this was not their first long-distance odyssey), but they need cash to do so.  Katie is a physical therapist and works short-term contracts to support her travel habit.  Molly left her former job in PR just before this long trip, and will shortly be taking a position teaching English in South Korea for a year.

What astonishes me, certified old fart that I am, is the flexiblility, openness and trust with which these young women approach life.  Certainly they both come from great privilege, having grown up in the U.S., been carefully cared for and educated (albeit with wretched student loans outstanding), as I assume Boon was in the Netherlands.  It gives them a passport to satisfy their curiosity, a passport not held by others less fortunate.  They also have the advantage of being English-speakers.  Is it not wonderful that they not only throw open their arms and embrace whatever comes their way but also go out of their way to seek the unknown?

Like anyone living in Italy we have our share of visitors (and very welcome they all are).  Frequently they arrive with various requirements – can’t eat this or that, don’t like this or that, must see this or that – and that’s no problem.  Our recent vagabonds, though, took what came their way, eating anything, were up for any activity suggested, but not asking for any in particular.  I suppose it’s an easiness that can come only with  a lot of time.  If someone is traveling for two weeks he might not want to spend five days sitting on the terrace of Casa della Palma!

Speedy and I were interested in their approach to travel.  Rather than going to places to ‘see the sights,’ they planned  part of their itinerary around good hostels.  Once in situ they were still not eager to wear out their shoes visiting all the must-see places noted in the tour books.  Instead they enjoyed hiking in the countryside, watching the daily life around them and meeting new people.  (Speedy mentioned that in the days of the Grand Tour one traveled to see art, monuments and so forth and tried very hard not to interact with people other than of one’s own nationality or class.  They’ve turned this notion on its head.)  In every port of call Katie and Molly made new friends.  They received extraordinary generosity in London and in Bosnia.  And having found new friends they keep in touch with them on their miraculous iPhones (they do everything on those phones.  Molly, from a hostel corridor, even had a job interview with someone in South Korea  on her iPhone.)

Perhaps it’s the interconnectedness that makes the world seem  so much more approachable.  Boon could couch-surf using the wi-fi at the Frigidarium ice cream shop in Rapallo to find a bed 100 km away; my niece could chat with her parents in the States, buy her train tickets (no need to pick them up, just show the ticket-taker the phone screen), and arrange a hostel stay, all from her little iPhone.

Suddenly these young people have showed us a very different world than the one in which we’ve lived, a world in which connecting to strangers is common currency, in which strangers are met with interest and curiosity rather than caution.  I asked if there were lots and lots of people hopping around the globe the way they are.  “Yes!” they said, “and most of them are Australian.”  The part about the Australians might not be strictly true, but it does seem that young people are no longer as constrained as earlier generations have been.  Jobs are more flexible (if harder to find), travel is easier, staying in touch a cinch.

Not that traveling the world is new; it probably began about the time we traded in our fins for feet.  Nomads do it to find food, some religious persons do it to spread their word and as a form of praise, gypsies do it as a matter of course, hobos do it of necessity.  (Even Speedy took a two-month vacation trip when he was in college, touring Belgium, France, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and Holland  on a motorcycle and making new friends.  Then he took his wanderlust as an occupation.)  What is wonderfully new to me is that a pair of ‘unaccompanied’ young women can safely travel to unknown places.  This was rarely done in times past, I believe.

There is something very special about a wanderer, something that speaks to the unheeded wanderer in each of us.  It’s the feeling that Chico, of the aforementioned Frigidarium,  had when he met Boon and felt he was in the presence of someone of immense calm, someone fascinating, someone whom he actively wished to help.  These young people are answering a call we must all feel at some level at some point in our lives, but which most of us have learned to ignore.  (We like our couches! ) Because they are answering the call for us, we want to help in any way we can.

Still, even our vagabonds have to go ‘home’ to roost from time to time (and how nice for them that home awaits).  What a joy it was for us to be the Half Way House for a few days, and to continue our own education into the ways of this new, smaller world.

Katie and Molly help Speedy with the great door project

Boon

Tags

Couch surfing, Long walks, Mammut, Masterpeace, Peace-walker, Twalk with Me, Wijnand Boon

Couch-surfing. I’d never heard of it until a short time ago and based on the number of members of the couch-surfing web-site, I am the last person on the planet to have heard of it.  We are not members of Couch-Surfing, but Wijnand Boon of the Netherlands is, and we were privileged to meet him a couple of weeks ago.

Here’s how it came about.  I happened to check the e-mail for this blog, something I do faithfully at least twice a month, and there was a note posted earlier the very same day saying, basically, help!  I’m in Rapallo, the weather is terrible, I can’t find a place to pitch my tent, is there anything you can do to help.  Well, it was 11:30 at night and raining pitchforks, with thunder and lightening to liven things up.

I would like to tell you that I got in the car and drove into town to find the hapless writer of this e-mail, but I didn’t.  I said to myself, too late, too late… and I went to bed, albeit with a large measure of guilt under my pillow.  I did write and say that I had only just found the message and I was sorry I was too late to help.

The next morning I was still feeling unhappy about neglecting a request from an unfortunate visitor to Rapallo.  How happy I was to receive a note from Boon, for it was he who had written, saying that he’d found a wonderful room for the night after all, but he could surely use a place either to sleep or pitch his tent for the next two nights.  Long story short he came to stay with us.  The guest-room was already overflowing with nieces, but Wijnand was happy to stay on the futon downstairs, and I think (I hope) he was comfortable enough.

He is traveling by foot from his home in Leiden, Netherlands to Cairo, Egypt.  The purpose is two-fold.  He began his 6,000 mile walk in reaction to a speech by Dutch Queen Beatrice on Christmas Day, I believe 2009, in which she spoke of social media as alienating people from one another.  WB begged to differ. He is making his journey to prove that social media connects us all on the very basic levels of necessity.  Using only social media such as Facebook, Twitter, Couch Surfing and people’s blogs he is finding places to stay along his route and making friends and connections every step of the way.  Social media is liberating, as he is proving, not alienating.  It can take a fair amount of effort (especially in suspicious old Liguria) and sometimes he needs to contact a few people before he makes a good contact.  But so far he has had almost nothing but success.

Some time after WB began his long trek  he was contacted by the good people at Masterpeace who are building towards a giant Peace Rally on September 21, 2014.  Like WB, Masterpeace wants to use social media to bring peace-loving people together, literally and virtually, and to promote world-wide activities focused on peace.  They asked Wijnand if he would walk for them, and he agreed. (You’ll find their logo at the bottom of his page, as well as the logo of Mammut, the Swiss boot-maker, who are his only sponsor and whose hiking boots he happily wears.)

Though Boon’s web-page says he is ‘walking 6,000 miles with only an iPhone and a guitar,’ he actually does have some other gear, such as clothing (!), a camera (a gift from one of his hosts), a tent and other necessities for living on the road.  He carries this all on an ingenious two-large-wheeled cart; it has handles which he can use to either push or pull, as well as a harness he can strap on for hands-free pulling.  It comes apart so it can be stuffed into the boot of a small car.

But don’t let mention of a car make you think that WB has ‘cheated’ on even a step of his journey.  He was able to come up to our house on the bus and take a ride down two days later in the car, but that was a side journey.  He has walked every step of the way from Leiden, through Portugal, Spain and France and is now working his way down The Boot towards Rome.  (You can find a map of his route on his web page.)

We are so happy to have met him.  While we don’t see eye to eye on many things (role of government, paper money, oh just all sorts of things) we had a fine time discussing them and trading thoughts.  Most refreshingly, we were able to disagree in a completely civil and respectful manner.  And that is part of what Wijnand Boon’s trip is all about – mutual trust and respect. A man of many talents, Boon entertained us with his guitar playing and singing one of his own songs (‘The Knowledge of You‘).

For old farts like us, the idea of trusting a complete stranger in our house (especially with lovely nieces thick on the ground) is a long shot.  We were able to do it to a point, and I think (I hope) we learned a lot from the experience.  Boon travels with an unwavering faith in the goodness and generosity of  people.  In two years, he says, he has had not one bad experience. I’m old and cynical enough to just shake my head and hope desperately that nothing happens on this odyssey to discourage him.

And speaking of being old and cynical… the whole notion of couch-surfing seems extremely foreign to us.  The idea of simply throwing open our doors and making up the futon for anyone who needs a bed is just… well… unthinkable.  And yet social networking seems to be making a success of such ideas.  It is, I suspect, mostly young people (20’s, 30’s?) who couch surf on both sides of the transaction, but maybe I’m wrong.  In any event, it is people who are willing to trust their fellow-man unreservedly.

Back when we were young in nineteen-mumble-mumble it seemed like we had a great deal to teach the world.  All of a sudden it seems like maybe we have a great deal to learn.

Thank you Wijnand Boon for beginning the lessons so gently.

Wijnand Boon making new friends

My Visit to Jamaica!

Tags

Jamaica (Queens), Jamao Coffee Shop and Restaurant, Liberty Avenue (Jamaica), Shaheem "The Dream", Sleep Inn

No, not the gorgeous Caribbean island, alas.  Speedy and I made our way to Italy via JFK.  We hadn’t been to that airport in years.  And what did we see when we exited the American Airlines terminal?

What a pleasure it was to see the famous terminal designed by Eero Saarinen and completed in 1962 (it’s been closed since 2001).   Readers who know Speedy personally will know that this was his ‘office’ for many years.  It was rather emotional to see the old sign lit up (TWA ceased operations on Dec. 1, 2001, and its assets were acquired by American Airlines which, in an odd twist of fate, is now in reorganization/ bankruptcy.)

After taking a night flight from Arizona and the bus that deposited us at Federal Circle (JFK’s public transportation hub) at 5 a.m. we wanted to sleep for a few hours, but we wanted to stay close to the airport.  Do you know what you can’t do on any of the automated travel services?  You can’t book a day room!  We were so surprised, and not in a good way, because we wanted to check in at about 6 a.m. and check out again at about 3 p.m.  The only way to do it was to call hotels one by one and request a very late check-in from the night before as well as a late check-out.  Many were not willing to accommodate us – the latest check-out they would allow was 2 p.m. – too early for us, as we needed rest before our evening flight to Europe.

The Sleep Inn in Jamaica came to the rescue.

I’ll be honest with you. Jamaica is not exactly the garden capital of greater New  York City.  In fact, it could be described as rather gritty.  But we had a marvelous time there.

First off, the staff at the Sleep Inn were incredibly helpful and friendly.  They sent a carry-van for us as soon as we arrived at Federal Circle, and the same van carried us to the airport on our own schedule that afternoon.  We awoke from our morning nap starving, so we inquired about nearby restaurants.  There’s nothing 4-star in the vicinity, or probably even 1-star, but we ate a delicious breakfast at the Jamao Restaurant, a joint with true island influence. The proprietress is from Domenica, and in addition to normal American breakfasts, she cooks up and serves a large selection of hearty Latin dishes.  Speedy couldn’t resist- after his breakfast sandwich he had a nice helping of lechon.  He didn’t think it was an appropriate breakfast, but it looked so fantastic he had to have a bit of early lunch.  It didn’t disappoint; it was as flavorful and succulent as it looked.

We took our stroll on streets that are mostly commercial, but there are large residential areas.  Jamaica (which has nothing to do with the Caribbean isle of the same name, other than the fact that lots of people from the island live there) was settled by the Dutch in 1656.  Today it is home to some 200,000 people of widely diverse backgrounds.  The ‘white flight’ that took place in the 1970’s is in the process of reversal as some neighborhoods become ‘gentrified.’ Where did the name come from?  The Lenape tribe gave the area their name for ‘beaver,’ which sounded like ‘Jameco’ to the English colonists who took over in 1664, according to Wikipedia.

Our visit centered on Liberty Avenue, which runs parallel to Jamaica Avenue, the main artery of the city.  Here are some ‘postcards’ from our visit to Jamaica:

The walls of the cement plant are the canvas for a block-long painting of what goes on at a cement plant – very colorful and engaging.

If you need anything at all for your car you can buy it on Liberty Avenue.  We must have seen six different auto parts stores.

And if your car is beyond repair, perhaps it will end up at this patriotic establishment.  Nearby there was a large plant for processing ordinary household recyclables.

If you want to learn to be an automobile mechanic you might want to attend the New York Automotive and Diesel Institute, as this group of young men are doing.  To tell you the truth, they gave us quite a start when we walked by.  One of them said, in what seemed to be an aggressive voice, “Where are you going?!”

Gulp.  “Nowhere,” we replied, “we’re just going back to our hotel.”

“Oh, okay,” he said. “I thought maybe you were lost and needed help.”  Well, isn’t that just like Jamaica?  A class act in work clothes.

As we continued we had the pleasure of meeting Shaheem “The Dream” and one of his pals who were getting ready for a spirited handball practice in Detective Keith L. Williams Park (also known as Liberty Park), home of handball courts, tennis courts, basketball courts and, we suspect, a baseball diamond, though we didn’t see that.

They had organized and were preparing for the Park’s first ever Opposites Tournament, designed for men and women to play together (but the men must use their non-dominant hands).  We spent a pleasant ten minutes learning about Shaheem’s prowess on the handball court, and continued on towards the Sleep Inn to prepare for the next leg of our journey. (That’s Shaheem in back wearing gray sweats, a cross and a huge smile.)

The Sleep Inn’s service did not end with our departure.  One of us left our toiletries kit hanging on the back of the bathroom door.  They are mailing it back to us.

In conclusion, while some might look at Jamaica and think this:

we would have to disagree.  Our visit was short, but it was packed with interest and with people who were kind and helpful.  Anytime people offer unsolicited help and conversation in the space of three blocks, you know you have found a real community.  And where else will you find an existential auto?

So if you find yourself needing a quick night’s sleep near JFK and you don’t want to spend a king’s ransom, we recommend the newly built (2010) Sleep Inn.  The rooms are well-appointed, the staff is superb, and the beds are very comfortable.  No, it’s not a five-star hotel, but the service rivals that which you will find at any other hotel.

Uppity Up Up

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Ballooning, Hot air balloons

Hot air ballooning is a big attraction in the Southwest. Probably the best known balloon event is the Albuquerque (New Mexico) International Balloon Fiesta, held in October each year. Among the zillions of scheduled events is a ‘mass ascension’ of hundreds of balloons, which must be quite something to see.

There’s ballooning activity here in Arizona as well, though it appears from the web sites I could find to be centered more around Phoenix proper , Scottsdale and Sedona rather than out to the east where we are.

I suspect the balloon we saw the other day belongs to an individual rather than one of the several tour companies that run balloon flights in the area.  We don’t often see balloons here, though part of the reason might be that flights generally take off at dawn and at dusk when the air is at its stillest.  We’re not usually looking out the window at dawn (ahem).

Our first glimpse, off to the east:

Getting closer and losing altitude:

About to land in the parking lot of a nearby shopping center:

It’s such a pretty sight, a hot air balloon; it gets one thinking adventurous thoughts.

The Captain and I went on a hot air balloon ride a number of years ago with the dashing Captain Bollard who dressed the part and served champagne.  I was terrified; the wicker basket you ride in comes up only to about your waist.  I spent the entire flight kneeling on the floor of the basket and peeking over the edge.  If I’d had a rosary you would’ve heard clicking beads a mile away.

Most of a balloon flight is calm, slow, gentle, graceful and still.  Until the captain decides it is time to gain some altitude.  Then he ignites a flame under the bottom hole of the balloon that makes a huge whooshing sound (the hot air fills the balloon above which is what makes it rise).  What a shock it was to hear that for the first time, and to be so close to a rather large open flame.  In a wicker basket.  Still, you see things from a completely new perspective when you look down from a balloon.  And since you’re not as high or moving as fast as you are in an airplane, you have time to look carefully at the scene slowly passing beneath you.  Sometimes you see a lot of faces staring up with their mouths open, which is quite satisfying.

One day about 15 years ago The Captain (not of balloons, by the way) and I were sitting on our terrace at our New England home having sundown drinks with friends.  We lived far out in the woods, and there were not many clear areas nearby other than the space in front of our house.  We watched a balloon in the distance grow larger and larger; in fact pretty soon it seemed immense – to the point that our 130-pound guard dog started quivering and soiled himself.  Yes, the same dog that kept delivery men rooted to their van seats in our driveway.  The balloon filled our sky and suddenly we realized that the pilot was looking for a place to land.  We also realized that he really had few options.  We knew who it was because there was only one balloonist for miles around (not Captain Bollard).  Sure enough, before long the balloon bounced along the field in front of our house, knocked over two sections of garden fence, took out a row of tomatoes and came to rest in our lettuce.  The sprightly 70+ year old pilot was all apologies, his comely companion, ever so much younger, was charming.  Drinks were offered, toasts drunk, the chase car appeared, and before we knew it balloon and balloonists were gone, as if it had all been something we imagined.

And that’s the thing about balloons, I think – they get the imagination going.  They’re romantic and slightly exotic; surely if you’re in a balloon, adventure cannot be far away!  So if you ever have a chance to have a balloon ride, I hope you’ll do it.  Even if you’re afraid – you can always kneel on the floor of the basket.

Ha-Ha-Hahn

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Enkirch, Hahn Airport, Kirst B&B, Raversbeuren, RyanAir, Trarbach, Trier

We’re back in Italy now, and it is just wonderful to be here. Not that we don’t love our homeland, but we love our adopted land more every year. Each time we return it feels more familiar, and more like ‘home.’ Of course soon after our arrival the usual train of bureaucratic nonsense began, but that’s a story for another day; and truly, it is not enough to dampen our spirits (as long as the sun continues to shine).

This time we returned through Frankfurt, taking advantage of American Airlines nonstop from Dallas to Frankfurt, and then low-cost RyanAir‘s nonstop from “Frankfurt” to Pisa. RyanAir is a good bargain most of the time, but you have to be rather careful about exactly where you are going to find yourself. Several years ago the Captain and I went to “Glasgow” from Pisa via Ryan, and arranged to rent a car at the airport. Ha ha. Ryan’s “Glasgow” flight goes to Prestwick, which is 30-40 minutes distant by car. We arrived in Prestwick, and not surprisingly found no car waiting for us. The AutoEurope people were fantastic, though, and quickly figured out what had happened. In short order we had a car and were on our way, laughing at our own carelessness. (In fairness, I have to say that the RyanAir website now says “Glasgow/Prestwick” – I don’t think it did a few years ago.

Likewise the website refers to “Frankfurt/Hahn.” You might think from the linking that the airports are close to one another; in fact it takes about an hour and a half to drive the 116 kilometers that separate the two airports. Ryan didn’t fool us this time, though; we had cleverly done our homework. There is very good and reasonably priced (E 12) bus service between the two airports, but we wanted to spend the night near Hahn and enjoy some good German beer and wurst. Unfortunately we were unable to find convenient bus/train service, so we simply rented a car, which had the added advantage of giving us lots of freedom… a good thing since the little town in which we chose to stay, Raversbeuren, was not exactly stuffed with pubs or restaurants.  Click here for map of the area (The pin A is in Raversbeuren, Hahn doesn’t show on map, but is right there.)

As we approached Raversbeuren we passed right by one of the Hahn Airport taxiways; it seemed decidedly odd to be so close to this large transport which had just landed.

A few minutes later we found ourselves in the B&B run by the charming Berta and Helmut Kirst:

They could not have been nicer to us. Their hospitality extended to an elaborate mid-afternoon tea with four different kinds of sweeties made by Berta herself. Our overnight there cost only E 40, permitted us early check-in, and included this amazing breakfast:

In addition to the spread of meats and cheeses, jams and breads, there are boiled eggs under those cheerful little red hats.  Behind the tea pot (good tea) is a plate of more of Berta’s sweeties.  There was not room for everything, but it was a pleasure to do our best to eat it all.

Hahn Airport was, until the mid-90’s, a U.S. Air base (cool airplane pictures here), and that’s pretty much what it still looks like.  For starters, it’s in the middle of nowhere.  You will not find the usual big hotels that sprout like weeds around more urban air hubs.  But you will find lots of small charming villages, and endless expanses of fields.

The photo above is of farm fields just outside Raversbeuren.  Hahn and its airport are about 5 km to the left.  Many of the houses and barns in Raversbeuren are clad completely in slate, which gives them a rather dour, imposing look, and which is, I think, quite unusual.

After our usual post-arrival nap we hopped in our nifty little car and took off to tour of the neighboring towns.  Enkirch is very nearby and is where we returned for a delicious dinner.  The sister towns of Trarbach and Traben lie on opposite sides of the Mosel River; both are picturesque and rather touristy.  They are connected by a fancifully painted bridge.  (There is an album of photos of these towns and other parts of the trip here.)

We arrived in Germany the day after Easter.  I don’t know if any other country has more fun with Easter than Germany.  Shop windows are given over entirely to springtime displays featuring flowers, rabbits, eggs, and bales and bales of straw grass.  Both our room at the Kirst B&B and the pub where we stopped for some excellent German beer were decorated for the holiday.  It seems you can’t go anywhere around Easter time without tripping on a bunny or an egg.

Arriving at the airport the next morning was a bit surreal.  We came in through the back entrance, rather than the somewhat more polished main entrance.  After traveling about a mile on dreadful heaved up and bumpy pavement we arrived at the gate, which looks much more like a base entrance than an airport entrance… for the simple reason that for years that’s what it was.

Fortunately we didn’t have to stop and show military ID.  But the strangeness continued as we drove past one hard stand after another. (The Captain explained to me that the hard stands each housed one airplane and its crew, which were always at the ready for almost instantaneous deployment.  Hahn was important during the cold war.).  We must have driven by fifteen of them at least.  It certainly didn’t feel like the beginning of a commercial air trip.

But it was, and eventually we found the place to return our rental car and were driven back to the air terminal.  The flight to Pisa was gorgeous as the Alps were in plain view for a change, as were the Lakes (and Lecco… where I think I saw some Rubbah Slippahs); so often one sees just the peaks popping through a heavy cloud deck.  As we approached Pisa we had ample proof that there has been a ton of rain in Italy.  Here is the muddy Arno emptying into the sea:

A few minutes after the above photo was taken our feet were once again on Italian soil, and all the joys and inconveniences of Italy re-entered our lives: we ate a fabulous panino while we waited for the train, which was delayed one and three-quarters hours.

Expatriate on the Isle of Skye, Part 2

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Clan MacLeod, Dunvegan, Isle of Skye, Scotland

Across the fields of bounding heather ~ (click link for wonderful old Beers Family recording of Dumbarton’s Drums…)

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The Isle of Skye is a big lobster-shaped island to the west of Scotland, near Inverness.  It is part of the inner Hebrides and is considered part of the Highlands.  The above photo is of Five Sisters Peaks; on the advice of a delightful woman who filled our car with gas we made a diversion to climb a hill (by car!) to get a good view of the mountains.  It was well worth the short amount of time it took, and was one of our first tastes of the excitement the Skye scenery offers.

The woman who gave us our gas was no exception; everyone we met on Skye was friendly and helpful to a fault.  Consider this: the host at The Salento B&B actually offered us the use of his washing machine to do our laundry.  It didn’t work out with our timing, but the fact that he offered amazed us.  He was typical of the people we met – eager to help, happy to chat, informative and fun.

We were on Skye for only three full days, not nearly long enough to explore the whole island.  My favorite day included a brief stop at the Isle’s capital Portree:

followed by a walk through the woods called “Two Churches Walk.”  Much of Skye is windswept and feels barren, but this walk through a tall piny forest gave us a good feeling for the large Norway Spruce forests that have been planted on the mainland and to a lesser extent on the island in the years since WWII.

This walk began and ended at St. Mary’s Church, a small ruined chapel where many of the chiefs of the MacLeod clan are buried.

No, it wasn’t especially warm that day…

From there we went to Dunvegan Castle, home for 800 years (with a brief 20th century lapse) of Clan MacLeod.  In addition to the castle itself

there are extensive and beautifully maintained gardens, including a water garden and a circle garden.

But for us the most exciting and fun part of the experience was the ride in a small boat to see the seal population of Loch Dunvegan.  We had wanted to take a boat tour this day, but our plans had been scotched (oh ha ha) by winds and tides.  To our delight the Dunvegan boats were operating, and we were the only two aboard with Captain Allan, who gave us a good history of the clan, the seals and the area in general. I couldn’t stop taking pictures of the seals – they are very cooperative.

Note the guy having a big yawn up there in the grass… or judging from the others’ expressions, maybe he just told a really stupid joke.

Is there anything more picturesque than sheep calmly grazing?

There may well be more four-footed inhabitants of the Isle than two – it certainly seemed that way to us as we drove around – and frequently the cows and sheep are not fenced in.

The real story of Skye, though, is the scenery and the light.  Clouds and showers come and go with frequency, shifting the light and changing the landscape before your very eyes.  None of it is easy to catch with a camera, but we both loyally tried.  Here are some photos from our drives around the island, and from a short hike we took up a hillside to view the water on both sides of the peninsula we were on:

Those are the Cuillin Hills in the background, some of which are over 3,000 feet in elevation. Here is another view of them:

They are a dark and brooding presence on the south part of the Isle.

On our last evening on Skye we went a short distance onto the mainland to the picturesque town of Plockton where, we were told, many movies and TV shows have been filmed.  There we ate haggis at the cozy old Plockton Inn – an experience no one should miss when visiting Scotland.

We were sad to leave the Isle of Skye – it has many more secrets than we had time to discover.  As we drove away we looked back at the castle of Eilean Donan, not far  from the Isle – it summed up for us all the magic of the preceding days, and issued a mute but compelling invitation to return.

If you’ve any patience left at all, you will find about 60 photos of the whole Scotland trip here. (I recommend the slide show, full screen (F11) – the quality of the photos is much better than in this post…)