Showing posts with label travels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travels. Show all posts

Friday, September 4, 2015

Cannery Row Revisited

John Steinbeck opens his novel by telling us that Cannery Row in Monterey, California, is “a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.”

By the time I first saw it in 1964, Cannery Row had retained much of Steinbeck’s attributes, if that’s what they are, and the qualities that he’d recorded two or three decades earlier when sardines still filled Monterey Bay and supplied the town with employment (for those who wanted it) and pumped economic life into the Row.

Some things had disappeared since his day, of course, and others rose to take their places. The Palace Flophouse that became almost central to his narrative had gone, but the Palace Bar, while not precisely in the same spot, gave the impression of having always been there. It stood beside the Steinbeck Theater, erected and named for the great man whose books made the Row famous, and those of us who found ourselves on the Row knew at once that we had walked through a looking glass and into a legendary land.

Time seemed to have stood still there. Decaying, rusting and abandoned canneries, some waving loose corrugated tin sheets thanks to the sea breeze, lined the bay side of the Row. True to Steinbeck’s description, rusting boilers and machinery parts lay around in empty lots. No fish smell by now, but iodine from the bay wafted over us. At least two markets claimed to be the fabled Lee Chong’s, its exact location not mattering. I can’t remember that we looked for Doc’s laboratory in particular since we weren’t on any sort of historical tour. Nope, we were headed for the Palace Bar for cold beer (50 cents a bottle), good music (folks songs, mostly), and just hanging out in the ambiance of the Row that Steinbeck created, one that yet survived, that now embraced us.

Lots of people who showed up at the Palace Bar were either interesting, or famous, or wanted to be. And we sang. Sang the songs of our day. Sang along with the juke box—Kingston Trio, Four Freshmen, Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez.

Joan Baez! Out of the night she arrived one time with her partner of indeterminate gender, guitar in hand. The Jukebox was stilled and she sang for an hour or so, then left as quickly and silently as she had arrived. And somehow we felt finer than ever that the world was ours and that we understood it. There’s no making sense of that feeling except to say that a contentment settled in as if we were a part of a larger and even mystical sphere of being.

The songs defined who we were, imparted an awareness and belonging to that place, as well as an indifference to the imminent passage of time and change. The great void took form and shape, showed us a world that we put off seeing as fantasy, and we were happy not to “look at clouds from both sides”. Gloomier ideas melted in the warmth of our good times and fifty-cent beers. We cared for nothing except that we were on the Cannery Row that defied time, and we lived among its rusting loveliness, never once thinking that other, more unnatural forces were already eyeing its solemn and majestic sense of place.

The slightest notice of its history would have jolted us into the reality that the Row had only been in existence since the turn of the century and was therefore fairly new even in Steinbeck’s time. We gave it a timelessness and romance that arose from the novel, both qualities the author used to paint a world, not for the place itself, but for the people who populated it.

He uses the Row as a backdrop, the only one possible for the “whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches”, or as he also calls them, “saints and angels and martyrs and holy men”, the denizens whom he brings to life. Steinbeck’s Cannery Row is a place without much in the way of official authority—police appear only in dire situations—a place that is left to itself to keep what goes for order, decency, and regard toward others, within an odd but universally acknowledged moral order. Apart from all but occasional and brief intrusions by the church-going moral crusaders from the town, the Row governs itself with the sort of wisdom and liberality that hinges on the accepted knowledge of how people are likely to behave in any given situation. Charity in its truest sense prevails, often in unconventional ways, and intentions whether or not they may come to planned results, receive credit and currency as the coin of the realm.

You’d want to live there back then, to know and live with Steinbeck’s people. I certainly did as I read his poetic novel, and as I walked into Cannery Row, that lost world and the ethical compass needle pointed to compassion and understanding, unveiling a better Eden than anything Genesis has to offer.

Modern Cannery Row now lines up with other lost worlds, the callowness of youth, the pleasant naiveté of not acknowledging the passage of time. Many of its derelict canneries have either been transformed into tourist shops and trendy restaurants, or have been taken down altogether with only the eroding cement of their foundations showing up through the weeds on their vacant lots. Steinbeck would scarcely recognize the Row apart from its location beside the bay.

Not all change is lamentable, however. Probably the world’s best aquarium sits at the end of Cannery Row and is dedicated to the restoration of Monterey Bay while endless lines of visitors view the antics of otters, the life of starfish, and myriad other sea creatures in their natural habitat.

My time fifty years ago on Cannery Row sits among the brightest of memories, and the novel that it inspired remains one of American literature’s monuments to “a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia”. More than that, it is a testimonial to compassion and understanding, showing us the folly of judging people based on anything except how they regard each other. My more recent visit to the Row brought back those memories and those precepts, well worth a stroll through its changed, but also changeless world.

Robert Heylmun
 September 2015

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

The Fine Art of Oysters


Maybe the title ought to say something about eating oysters. Apart from the pearls they can produce, but rarely do, there’s nothing fine or artful about oysters. They grow in what look like accretions on the sides of whatever they can attach themselves to, and their outer shells present nothing that might inspire a painter. (Although, that said, they appear in the occasional Dutch sill life.) Once bared to the world, they still look a bit daunting, and it’s small wonder that the old remark about the bravery of the first man who ate a raw oyster gets trotted out by the would-be wit who thinks we haven’t heard that one. So, it’s eating them that involves skill, even art.

I’ve been enjoying oysters on the half shell for about fifty years now, and the first thing I’d like to do is to poo-poo the myths that often attend eating raw ones. From time to time we get news of pollution getting into the oyster beds, of mercury poisoning, of painful death from unknown bacterial infections, and other dire consequences of not having oysters thoroughly cooked. These and other warnings are the products of either the news media, who are short on their usual tripe to print, or the hand wringings of the uninitiated who stand outside oyster bars and cluck their distaste at connoisseurs who know better about the joys of eating oysters. So much for them.

The best place to get raw oysters, hands down, is the Acme Oyster Bar on Iberville Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans. I went there today for lunch, and it’s the same place it’s been for the fifty years I mentioned. A second possibility is Felix’s across the street, just in case the line to get into the Acme winds all the way up to Bourbon Street. It often does, especially at night, but the Acme opens at 11:00 AM for lunch and is less busy if you go then. You can sit at the bar if you want.

In you go, get seated, order an Abita Amber beer and a dozen on the half shell.

http://www.tabasco.com/recipe-photos/detail-full-width/4151.jpg
The dozen arrive and you set to work. You’ll need to make yourself a sauce. This consists of ketchup, horseradish, and fresh-squeezed lemon juice. On the side sits a bottle of Louisiana Crystal hot sauce. A healthy squeeze of ketchup first, then as much horseradish as suits you, but be careful here. The idea of is to enhance the oysters and not to overpower them. Be careful with the hot sauce too.

Lance saltine crackers are not available everywhere, but you’ll find them here. They provide transportation. Dip an oyster into your sauce and fork it onto a saltine. And eat it all at once. Pure heaven. And you have eleven more, all yours.

Sharing. Well, I’m of the persuasion that everyone is better off with his or her own dozen. Once in North Carolina when I ordered raw oysters, my sister, who had never dared to try one before, decided to have one of mine. She ended up eating four of my dozen. While I was glad that she found herself enjoying something she had five minutes before thought utterly disgusting, I was still out four oysters. So, if you’re with anyone who seems at all curious about the possibility of helping you eat your oysters, my advice is to forestall both their curiosity and your annoyance at having been nicked out of the dozen you were looking forward to.

I know that I sound as if you can’t find oysters everywhere, even in jars in most markets. But they simply aren’t the same as those that are ice cold, freshly shucked, and sitting on their half shells, arrayed around a platter with a healthy amount of your sauce in the middle.

New Orleans prides itself on its cuisine, and that includes cooking oysters in various ways. I do not want to disparage those recipes, and a fine Oysters Rockefeller can be just the right appetizer with a cold glass of champagne before a lovely dinner. Oysters show up in all sorts of other traditional recipes like gumbos and stews. All well and good, but for me and my house, we will serve them raw.

Robert Heylmun 
 18 November 2014 

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Dark and Deep


Robert Frost knew about the woods being dark and deep. He watched on that winter night as the woods filled up with snow, and the wonder of silence and beauty combined to inspire his poem.

I am not sitting in a sleigh pulled by a chilly horse, and it is not snowing. In fact, it isn’t even raining (something of a disappointment for a visiting San Diegan). Instead, I’m inside my friend’s comfortable house that sits in the middle of tall trees and forest. Not exactly dark and deep, but the sense of forest obtains outside the big windows of the kitchen. This is woods enough for now.

When I talked about this road trip that would take me from the southernmost part of the US to the northernmost, a number of friends wondered why I wouldn’t just fly there. A couple of them thought I was nuts. The object of coming to Bellingham, Washington, is a writers conference, and Alaska Airlines has a number of daily flights from San Diego to Seattle, and easy connections to Bellingham. Why drive some 1300 miles, they asked. Such a long trip alone. And the traffic!

I confess that I did have some second thoughts, daunted by the prospect of long hours in the car, but I broke up the trip into do-able parts, none of which was more than 500 miles (that was the longest to Monterey), and most were around 300 miles in any given segment. I also have to say that not all of the driving has been wonderful, but once I got to the Siskiyou Mountains in southern Oregon, all doubts entirely disappeared. Here I was in some of the most beautiful scenery in the US, surrounded by heavily wooded hills and mountains, full-flowing rivers, and on a road that took me comfortably through wilderness.

San Diego is my home and I wouldn’t live anywhere else, but I have to get away from time to time, just to see real forests. Palm trees don’t constitute forests, and neither do stands of eucalyptus. I need to smell tall trees, redwoods and alder, and watch them grow among beds of ferns and green bushes. My nearby mini-fix from San Diego is to drive an hour up to Julian where apple trees, scrub oak, and manzanita provide temporary relief from my tree deprivation.

From Wikipedia
But the redwoods in northern California as well as the deep tree growth between there and Washington are the ‘forest primeval’, the world of wild things, and the source of air scented with pine resin and indigenous shrubs. There is a gentle wind this morning that rustles the leaves in the forest outside the window, giving it an animation and a life that invites me to a walk through the ferns and over the moss, and into its green and natural heart.

I have two stops from here next weekend that will land me on the Russian River and near the Armstrong Forest. In the 19th century, much of that river valley was clear-cut (completely forested; every redwood cut down), but the Armstrong woods was spared. It stands today as a picture of how the dark and deep forests must have looked for thousands of square miles along the California coast, but also a sad reminder of our penchant for destruction. You enter it with a kind of reverence as if coming through the doors of a great cathedr
al. Its giant trees confidently reach toward the light, inspiring quiet and calm, and the forest floor, now soft with fallen leaves, exudes an odor of renewing life. The air is cleaner, there is more oxygen, and you feel healthier and at one with everything that is quietly but busily growing there.

To my mind, painters don’t paint it well any more than I can describe it well. It’s one of those things in creation that has to be experienced and embraced and extolled inside by anyone who comes to the forest. The experience leaves its mark on your soul, and its wordless lessons spring to your mind, offering a deeper understanding of life and life’s cycle, and a clearer sense of meaning and existence that is heartening, and that is less dark.

Robert Heylmun 26 June 2014

Friday, June 13, 2014

Travels with Prius


I’m in Steinbeck country, dead center Monterey and only blocks from Cannery Row and the site of Tortilla Flat. A few miles away, Salinas provided Steinbeck with the setting for East of Eden. Later in his life, he wrote Travels with Charley (his poodle), but not having a dog to sit in my front seat, I travel solely with Prius.

Fifty years ago, Monterey hadn’t become a tourist destination particularly; at least, I don’t remember that it had. I was here thanks to the US Navy, and the military commandeered not only Fort Ord (now going the way of NTC San Diego), but also much of the Defense Language Institute. Tourists went instead to nearby Carmel to see the town that one wag described as ‘smaller than life itself’ or to Pebble Beach for famous golf tournaments.

But in Monterey, Cannery Row was still lined with decaying sardine canneries, abandoned after the sardines decamped to other, less dangerous waters, leaving the factories that had been the economic life blood of the city to rust along its bay front. The Palace Bar took over part of one of the old canneries, positioning itself beside the John Steinbeck Theater, and the Palace Bar was where we went for what must have been cheap beers and unamplified singers who came by with guitars and folks songs. One night who should show up but Joan Baez, accompanied by a partner of indeterminate gender, to sing an entire set for us as we settled into more beers and comfortable listening.

The Navy didn’t keep me here for long, but long enough to place Monterey onto a list of places that warm my heart when I think of them. It’s a city that ranks below New Orleans and Florence, but it’s on the list nevertheless, and I’ve been looking past its burgeoning tourist trade in an effort to find the Monterey I knew back then. Isn’t that what we do on nostalgic visits, look for the unchanged among the constantly changing?

The view from Highway 1, by SLF
You can still find the old customs house and Robert Louis Stevenson’s residence. They are right there along with Benihana’s and LouLou’s Griddle in the Middle. Fisherman’s Wharf used to be one where fishing boats unloaded their catches, and the sea gulls and pelicans still think it is, but nowadays the birds perch on the roof of Crabby Jim’s Seafood Restaurant, and flap over to Carousel Candies for the occasional diversion. Gone are the canneries on Cannery Row, replaced by endless boutiques and t-shirt shops but also with one of the world’s most spectacular aquariums. Thus, time giveth and time taketh away.

By now the foggy Monterey morning wanes and I want to go out walking in it before the clouds lift. There is a slight mist falling; I need a jacket for my trip down to the bay, and I am exhilarated by the smell of iodine coming in on the sea breeze. The streets begin to fill with tourists, and a woman asks me if I’ve passed a particular fudge vendor on my way here. We all have, it seems, reasons for being here.

Robert Heylmun 11 June 2014



Thursday, January 12, 2012

Closing the Circle

Pat at the Tatoo

Sometimes in life something happens to us in such a miraculous way that it simply has to be shared. And thus it is that I’m writing this article to share with my St. Paul’s Family.

I recently took a trip to Scotland. I was able to check something off my “Bucket List”, which was to attend The Edinburgh Military Tattoo. It was such a magnificent show; bagpipes drum and bugle corps, highland dancing, and all done with the Castle as the backdrop. I hope you all get a chance to watch it when it is shown on PBS.

But the main reason I made this trip was to scatter my Father’s ashes over his beloved Orkney.

Orkney is a group of islands north east of mainland Scotland. Dad was born there and although moved away when he was young he always talked about his memories of summers and holidays spent in Kirkwall, the major city in Orkney. He told me that he wanted to have his ashes scattered over Kirkwall, so in 1990, Dad, my sister Jean, and I took a “Beat the Ashes” trip so he could show us himself the place he called Home. Watching our 80 year of father grow younger before our eyes as he stepped off the plane was such a joy. Everywhere we went he had wonderful stories to share with Jean and me. And it soon became evident why he loved it so much. It is truly a magical place and it was a trip of a lifetime.

Dad died in 2000 and since my sister was unable to fly to Scotland, she wanted to keep the ashes in her home. With her passing in February I knew it was time to take him Home. This time, however, I seemed to have additional anxiety about the trip. I know that several of you were praying about the concerns I had with getting Dad’s ashes through security, as well as the unknown once I was there. The power of prayer was so evident from the moment I arrived at Lindberg Field. It’s as though God sent down His band of angels to accompany me on my journey. There were never any problems, only a great deal of care and compassion shown to me as I traveled with the ashes. Thank you all for your prayers!

St Magnus
Once I got to Kirkwall, I met Rev. Fraser McNaughton, minister of St. Magnus Cathedral where my father was christened one hundred years ago. We had corresponded through email, but I had no idea what to expect. He couldn’t have been more wonderful, definitely another angel sent for this special moment in time.

 St. Magnus Cathedral was built in the 12 century and is a magnificent building of rose colored sandstone with magnificent stained glass windows and intricate stone work throughout. It is Church of Scotland, thus Presbyterian, but I certainly didn’t hold that against him. It is a major tourist attraction and thus filled with tourists most of the day. Dad’s ashes were placed on the lovely communion table along side a beautifully carved Viking ship below the Rosetta window. Unfortunately the ashes were in a clear Tupperware container as required by the TSA. A bit out of place, but I’m quite sure dad wouldn’t have minded.

The Rev. Fraser McNaughton
Since the cathedral was filled with tourists, Fraser (he’s a first name kind of guy just like our Scott) announced that we will be blessing the ashes of a man who was born in Orkney, settled in California, and wished that his hashes be scattered here. I heard a sign the crowd hushed, sat down, and became part of the service. A candle was lit, the most perfect words were spoken as if he’d known dad personally, and a perfect poem and lovely prayer finished the service. It was more than I had ever expected or could have orchestrated. Fraser drove us to a spectacular sight, high above the city, overlooking the sea, where he again said the most perfect words and I threw Dad’s ashes into the Orkney wind. At that very moment I could feel his spirit soaring and he was truly free to roam the glens of home!! It was more than I had expected or could have ever orchestrated. This was God’s work; there was no doubt about it. Yes, it was a perfect day and the circle of life was complete.

Kirkwall, Orkney Islands, Scotland

I am so glad that Dad shared his heritage with me and appreciate more than ever the need to pass that on to the next generation. I felt as though my roots had grown deeper and stronger, thus enabling me to stand tall against any harsh winds of time. To those of you who have knowledge of your family tree, pass it onto the future generations. This simply shouldn’t be lost.

-Pat Kreder

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

A visit to Grace Cathedral, San Francisco

As you may recall from some of my other posts, when we travel to major cities, Lisa and I try to "bag a Cathedral." So far we've visited sister cathedrals in Portland OR, Minneapolis MN, and Washington DC. We always introduce ourselves, and bring back a bulletin for Chris Harris (the bulletin sits on our piano for a few months before we remember to give it to him!)

Last Thanksgiving, we were in the Bay Area, visiting family in the Berkeley Hills. My mother encouraged us to go across to the City and go to church at Grace Cathedral (usually, we go to All Soul's parish in Berkeley). So we took BART over to San Francisco, got off at the Embarcardero, and took the California LIne cable car up to Nob Hill, looking back down the steep hill into the Financial District and the Bay Bridge. (Note to Cable Car aficionados: the California Line is the least popular with tourists so you are more likely to get on without a long wait!)

Nob Hill is so named because the "nobs" (the City's elite) long had their residences there. After the Great Earthquake and Fire destroyed a previous church and the buildings in 1906, the Crocker family contributed their property to build an Episcopal Cathedral in a neo-Gothic style. Building began in 1928 and was finished in 1964. These days, the great residences are clubs, and Nob Hill is known for a number of pricey hotels.

Doors of Paradise

Cathedral Facade

We got there a little early and walked around the building first, admiring the facade and the immense replica Ghiberti "Doors of Paradise" from Renaissance Florence. An usher standing in front of the church offered us the service booklet and bulletin and asked if we were visitors. We told him we were from the Cathedral in San Diego and he looked at us doubtfully. "That's not actually a Diocese, is it?" he said. Needless to say, we corrected him.

The Nave

AIDS chapel

As you enter Grace Cathedral, the space is immense, and seems even bigger than the size of the building from the outside. It looms before you into the distance, and above you to the dim ceiling. To your right is a modern style interfaith chapel in memory of those with HIV/AIDs. Along the nave, the side walls have murals of different stages of California and church history. Just past the big central font there is a labyrinth on the floor of the nave; a few people were walking it before the service started. The pews only begin half way along the nave and it's a long walk to get there. The building is still incomplete; if you look up, you can see the unfinished ceiling in the gaps of the groins.

The Labyrinth


Ceiling

The space is so huge that the 200-ish people there were just about swallowed up (I am not at all sure of the count because of the size of the place). I watched a woman in jeans, spike heels, and a very expensive looking mink jacket walk up the aisle to the front and thought that the days of the nobs are still with us!

What struck us most is that every one was so self-contained. At St Paul's before the service begins, there are smiles, greetings, touches on the shoulder--you get the feeling that people know each other. At Grace, there didn't seem to be that warmth, maybe because there were more tourists in the holiday season? Or because there was so much room, you could sit at some distance from one another? In any case, the vast space felt cold. (Although, in common with other Cathedrals we've visited, there are cushions on the pews. Just a suggestion…. ;-)

After the service (the new Dean presiding), we went down to the coffee in a room beneath the church. Here people were chatting with each other, but no one spoke to us. This was quite different from the other churches we've visited, where people have immediately struck up a conversation with the strangers. There clearly is a community there, but a surprisingly insular one for a great Cathedral in a great City.

This puzzled me, because at the top of their bulletin, they have the words "Belonging before believing" which is a buzz term of the Emergent Church movement that prominently advocates community. Grace is clearly an active and involved place, with a progressive Dean and progressive Bishop. We're glad to have visited. But I think next time we visit Mom and Dad, we'll spare ourselves the trek across the Bay and head back down to the friendly folks at All Soul's. Even though we don't get there often, they already recognize our faces.



-Susan Forsburg

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

A visit to the National Cathedral

We went to Washington DC on Oct 30-31 to participate in the Jon Stewart "Rally for Sanity." Since our flight home on Sunday didn't leave till 3.40, we decided to make the trek to the National Cathedral for Sunday morning Eucharist.

Unlike most tourist sites in DC, it's not easy to get to the Cathedral via the Metro without a long walk or a bus ride. We had brunch at a restaurant near the Cleveland Park metro stop to fortify us for the mile+ walk up the hill through a beautiful residential area. How odd to see a massive neo-Gothic building appear over the rooftops as we drew near!

The National Cathedral is Episcopalian, which is a measure of the traditional connection between Episcopalians and the seat of power--a connection no longer in place it seems, or surely there would be more sensible behavior on display in Washington DC. The building was started in 1907 and finished in 1990. It is immense, and being on one of the few areas of high ground in the city, is easy to see. (We got a particularly impressive view from National Airport, across the Potomac River, on our way out of town.) Right next door is another Episcopal church, the parish of St Alban's, which amused me because as I told you last year, there's a St Alban's right next to the Anglican Cathedral in Tokyo as well. :-)

We were a little late so were in the second block of seating in the nave, about halfway along. You can see from the pictures how huge it is. I guess there were at least 400 people there at 11.15 (one of four Sunday services). Clearly the folks around us were mostly tourists because they didn't sing the hymns nor say the responses. In fact, the family behind us looked decidedly nonplussed during the Peace when we turned around to shake hands. They left not long after!

They didn't use the choir stalls in the chancel, but rather, the altar was in front of the screen that divides the apse from the rest of the nave. The choir of men and angelic-looking boys framed the altar. Flat screen TVs are mounted in the nave so that you can see what's going on up front which is a long way away. During communion the camera panned the windows, or showed the organist playing, which was tastefully done but still, well, touristy.

The presider did not chant, and there was no incense. Also, they only had one reading before the Gospel. After the service, they had coffee in the back of the nave. Instead, we walked all around and look at the several chapels, and went through the apse for a look all the way back to the Rose window. The colorful windows range from modern designs with abstracts, or the planets, to traditional ones including representational American figures like a pilgrim or George Washington. And above the nave are hung flags of the 50 states in order of admission into the Union, with DC's flag at the end. The sun was low enough so that the light through the windows checkered the stone in vivid colors.

It really does evoke the grand Gothic cathedrals of Europe. I have to say, I found that effect rather disconcerting! But in a nice way. We figured you could put at least 4 of St Paul's into the National Cathedral and still have space left over!

If you go to Washington, the National Cathedral has a very helpful website with directions, the schedule of services, and list of preachers. They also have an active music program and numerous other events. If you're going to be in DC for Christmas, you have to apply for a ticket on the website. Don't rely on GoogleMaps to tell you where the Cathedral is (they place "the pin" on the Cathedral offices up the hill). But it's so immense, you can't miss it.

Susan Forsburg.

Click on any photo for a closer view!

Monday, November 1, 2010

Midway: Postcard from Italy

Robert Heylmun is traveling, and sends us this expanded postcard

Maybe I should have said ‘half way’. This note has nothing to do with the aircraft carrier now serving as a naval museum in San Diego harbor, but it does have to do with having spent fifteen or so of my thirty allotted days here in Florence.

            When I tell friends that I am spending a month in Italy, they are often in awe of what sounds like a long time on a trip. I learned years ago that a month goes by very quickly, seemingly more quickly when you’re busy having lots of dinners with old friends. It is for that reason that my current flat mate Alice usually spends three months here (she can’t this year.) Anyway, we have been cramming a lot of things into our limited time. It’s the quality, not the quantity of time here that makes the difference.

            Nine years ago I met Maurizio who was then finishing his laurea (university degree) at the University of Florence at the ripe old age of thirty-three. And that is ‘ripe old’ for a laurea. Postponing the degree puts you into a job market that seeks people who have finished their university studies in their twenties. Sure enough, Maurizio had some trouble finding a job here and finally went to Stockholm to work for the Italian consulate.

            Maurizio has always been extremely generous with his car. Back in 2001 he took me and another friend up the mountain outside of Vinci (Leonardo’s hometown) to the area around Abitone, a ski resort in the winter, but a luxuriously wooded area in the summer. We hiked into the nearby hillsides where we ate wild berries and looked over the valleys beneath that stretched toward the province of Modena and beyond.
            Maurizio took me on a number of small trips in those days, and this past Friday he wanted Alice and me to meet him in Empoli from where he would drive us to the seaside, namely to a town called Castiglioncello. His aunt, now deceased, had years ago wisely bought property there. So off we went.

            The regional train left the station in Florence at precisely 9:27AM when its schedule said it would (no one seems to thank Mussolini any longer), and after a couple of brief stops, got us to Empoli right on time. Maurizio was waiting for us at the station, and we walked with him to his aunt’s house, there to meet his uncle (aunt’s brother) and a collection of turtles that live in the garden. Before long we were driving toward the beach.

            Italy constantly surprises visitors, even us old hands who sometimes think we’ve seen it all. At the top of a high hill overlooking the port of Livorno, now the second busiest in the country, sits the Santuario della Madonna di Montenero. Maurizio managed to drive us up to see it. The church itself is splendidly baroque and probably only a few centuries old, but the astonishing feature of the place has to do with what are called voti. The walls are lined with drawings, paintings, crocheted illustrations, photographs, and even newspaper articles which thank the Madonna for intervening in accidents, thus rescuing hundreds, perhaps thousands of people from death.

The voti seem to be loosely organized around the nature of the accident they portray: one group shows people falling out windows; another features people who were nearly burned to death; there are motor accidents; still more thank la Madonna for keeping them safe through earthquakes. And on it goes. Almost any calamity you can think of that might befall humans is represented there. The best of the voti are painted or drawn in a primitive style (we were reminded of Grandma Moses), and that very style makes their grateful messages much more poignant.

Who knew this place existed? Even the ex-pats with whom we had lunch the next day back in Florence hadn’t heard of Montenero. Some are thinking of organizing a trip to see it. We assured them that it’s well worth the effort.

            We went on toward Castiglioncello .The ever hospitable Maurizio proposed stopping for groceries so that he could give us lunch at one of his apartments. We finally talked him out of that, and offered instead to treat him to lunch at a seafood restaurant I remembered from years ago called La Cicala che Ride (The Laughing Cricket), some ten kilometers away in the neighboring town of Cecina.

And what a lunch it was. Alice ordered a spaghetti con arselle (small clams), and we each had a plate of assorted fish and seafood.  Maurizio dug into a fabulous seafood stew. We shared assaggi (samples) of everything, washing our lovely meal down with an excellent, but by local standards, ordinary red wine. Maurizio had only one small glass of it so that he felt OK about driving us back to Castiglioncello.

            A stroll through the town followed, very welcome as we walked off lunch. This sleepy beach town whose topography strongly resembles Laguna Beach, California, in its less populated days; it has a cove, rocks and cliffs that border parts of it, rising up from the shore and providing shelves on top where streets are lined with great trees that shade its houses and its modest business district.

The train goes there as well, and after coffee at a chic and modern café’, we bought tickets for Florence. Maurizio was staying in town to do some repairs in the apartments, but of course, always the gracious host, saw us onto the train.

            It had been a rich day, one whose hours sailed by. Such days as this one, imprisoned in memory’s amber, are imperishable and a permanent treasure. The trick is to have as many days like this as possible so that when that month, which many people think of as a long time, comes to an end, you’ve got a string of gems to wear home and show off to friends. 

Are you inspired by travel? let us know where you have been!

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

The Churches of London

I was on a business trip overseas this last week, and had Saturday to spend in London. This is always a pleasure; I lived in England for 4 years, and being a theatre buff, I spent lots of time in London's West End. So it always feels familiar, and I love wandering the city streets.

One of the things I learned, living there, is that when your feet are sore and you don't feel like having a coffee or a beer, the churches of the West End offer a tranquil place for a respite. Most tourists never get beyond St Paul's Cathedral or Westminster Abbey, but there are a number of lovely little churches that are well worth the visit, and some time spent in contemplation. All are within walking distance of one another.

My absolutely favorite (being a theatre buff) is St Paul's, Covent Garden. This church, called the Actor's Church, is lined inside with plaques commemorating actors and performers including the likes of Vivian Leigh and Noel Coward. This church provides the big portico over the west end of the Covent Garden plaza, but you can't get in that way; the entrance is through a narrow passage and a garden on a side street, and so few people find their way inside. The story goes that the architect Inigo Jones was advised that the patron of the church didn't want to pay for any more than a barn. "Then he will have the finest barn in Europe", retorted Jones, and the interior is indeed lovely. The church dates from 1638. On Saturday, I walked around inside reading the familiar plaques (like visiting old friends) and then sat for a bit, enjoying the peace. Curled up on a chair next to the chancel slept a small tabby cat, who clearly is Kitten Residentiary.

St Martin in the Fields (1721) is right on Trafalgar Square. Its spire and Georgian elegance make a famous image. Inside, it is also stunning, with a breathtakingly elaborate period ceiling. St Martin's is noted for the music program, and hosts many concerts. The crypt underneath has low, dark brick arches that are very earthy compared to the elegance above. Remarkably, the crypt has been converted into a cafe, which turns out to be a good stop for a bite. Also good if you need the restroom, a practical need of tourists!

Two churches along the Strand are often neglected by visitors. Tiny St Mary le Strand (1723) is the sole occupant of a traffic island. St Mary's is like a little jewel compared to the much larger, grander St Martin's, but clearly in the same style. And indeed, it was built by James Gibbs, the architect of St Martin's. There's seldom anyone in St Mary's, and it is a wonderfully serene and tranquil space for a moment apart.

A short walk east is St Clement Danes, built in 1682 by Christopher Wren (who also built St Paul's Cathedral--the London Cathedral, that is! ;-). It's the Royal Air Force Church, because that service raised the funds to restore it after it was nearly destroyed by bombing in 1941. Inside, there are memorials to the RAF and numerous donations and momentos. If you have an interest in WWII history, this is a worthy place to visit for that reason too.

Finally, if our own music program has inspired you, consider a visit to Westminster Abbey as a worshipper, rather than a tourist. Rather than paying for admission and wandering around in the chaos of a gazillion noisy tourists, you can sit and experience what the Abbey was built for. The Abbey closes every afternoon to tourists, but you can just turn up and tell them at the gate that you are there for the evensong service and they will let you in. It took 300 years to build it (from around 1245 to 1517) and there is nothing like the sound of the men's and boys' voices in that vast space, curling up into the stone tracery of the highest Gothic nave in England.

Last Saturday's evensong included music by Gibbons, Byrd, Howells, and a lovely anthem by Bruckner. The afternoon sunlight slanted through the stained glass windows and the stone glowed. It wasn't until later that day that I realized it had been the anniversary of 9-11. On the whole, it was the appropriate place for it.


Susan Forsburg, who is always happy to talk about London

Pictures from Wikipedia

Saturday, June 19, 2010

St John's Ketchikan needs a new rector


On a recent visit to Alaska, we visited St John's Ketchikan, Alaska, and St Peter's-by-the-sea, Sitka. The retiring rector of St John's asked all the visitors to spread the word that they need a new rector for this small, but friendly parish nestled in this pretty town. Since the Cathedral community is large and we have lots of clergy connections, this seemed a good place to mention it.

As well as fishing and tourism industries, Ketchikan is a great arts community. The congregation is ethnically and economically diverse, not surprising in this very diverse region SO! If you know someone for whom this little parish sounds like a good fit, Spread the Word! Check out the job listing and the church's wishlist. Candidates can contact St John's, Ketchikan directly at 907-225-3680, PO Box 3003, Ketchikan, Alaska 99901 for more information.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Our sister Cathedral in Minneapolis

Friends of Jake blogger IT and her wife BP are on the road again, this time visiting our sister Cathedral St Mark's in Minneapolis, which they found very welcoming. In the comments to that post, lots of folks from around the country suggest friendly parishes to visit. It would be great if you mentioned in the comments here, parishes where you have felt welcome in your travels!

BP and I are in Minneapolis on a combined business/family trip. We are staying close to the University on the East Bank. Last time we were here we were in St Paul, and had a very nice visit to the parish church of St Christopher's. But this time, BP said, "let's bag a Cathedral!" (I guess she enjoyed our trip to the Cathedral in Portland, OR.) A moment on the web showed us that St Mark's Cathedral is a welcoming parish, so off we went.

It's an imposing church, neo-Gothic in style, with a high, vaulted ceiling. The stone is warm tan in color, though I have to say I'm glad I don't have to pay for heating the place in the winter time. (Our own Cathedral is also neo-Gothic but much smaller in size--not surprising because it was built before San Diego was an independent diocese. ) A good showing in the congregation, and a good choir, though we were disappointed not to hear more solo-choir pieces. They did a Vaughn Williams piece that was spectacular, however. A little less pomp than our home community--no incense, no stately vergers escorting the readers, and the Dean, who presided and sermonized, is not a chanter. But he had a warm, Southern intonation and his image of social justice and inclusion ( "that's when the Gospel hit the fan!") was priceless.

According with our habit of showing up when things are happening, they were retiring their Deacon today, and welcoming a number of new members (including young families). We enjoyed bringing greetings to the Dean from our home Cathedral and got a warm welcome from him in return.

We travel a fair amount (as you will have seen) and so we rely on web sites to tell us if the churches we look at are likely to welcome folk like us. This one is a spectacularly welcoming, social justice parish. We felt very much at home there, and commend it to you if you travel that way. Way to go, Minnesota.

Cross posted with permission from Friends of Jake.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A visit to a sister Cathedral

Cross posted with permission from Friends of Jake, where blogger IT blogs about her travels with her wife BP.

This weekend BP and I visited family in Portland Oregon. We had a great time, staying downtown in the very funky Ace Hotel, and riding the MAX train everywhere. What a cool city. We could definitely live there (of course we'd have to switch our identity from desert rats to rain forest bats).

Generally when we travel, we find ourselves attending local parish churches, as you've read before. However, since we were downtown, we decided to visit Trinity Episcopal Cathedral on Sunday, and compare it to our home Cathedral, St Paul's in San Diego.

Trinity is an imposing building (or rather complex of buildings) in dark stone. The cheery cherry red doors are a welcome dash of color under the grey Northwest sky. Inside the Cathedral is huge! It's a big, open space, quite in contrast to the narrow, neo-Gothic style of St Paul's. It's HUGE. Trinity's interior is painted in a pale cappuccino color that picked up a warm tone from the lighting and candles. We particularly appreciated the red cushions on the pews! :-) The choir was also large, and very good, though we were a bit disappointed that they sang few pieces alone, but mostly sang with the congregation. We also missed the St Paul's thurifers, who swing a mean thurible (BP and I share an affection for incense both at home and at church). But those are minor differences, and we found it a wonderful and welcoming place.

The space was pretty full. We figured around 200 people were there , and noticed that they were (A) much better dressed than we were and (B) mostly older than we are. The reason for this was explained by the Dean, who was presiding, and who told us during the announcements that a "family service" was being held simultaneously in the church hall where about 180 kids and parents were located. All I can say is, wow. That place must be totally packed to the gills on a "normal" Sunday! It has an associated school, too.

A real treat was the sermon, which was preached by Rev Canon Marianne Borg, who is on staff there. She is Marcus Borg's wife, and we had heard from our Dean about her . She is an outstanding preacher, very animated and alive in voice, with a warm approachability. She began with the reminder that all are made "very good". From there, she went to the different ways of knowing: head of course, but also heart and gut. One message (ironic, she acknowledged, given she is married to a noted intellectual) was to "remember" other instinctual ways of knowing and feeling. She told a sweet story:
A young couple had a second child and brought him home from the hospital. After a few days, their 4 year old daughter asked for a few moments alone with her new baby brother. The parents did not think that sibling rivalry had set in, but cranked up the baby monitor to hear what happened in the nursery when the little girl went in by herself. They heard her approach the crib and a creak as she grasped the rails. "Please tell me about God," she asked the baby. "I've almost forgotten!"
Reminding the congregation that many have "almost forgotten", she concluded with an exhortation to leave one's comfort zone, to put out to deep water, and to let down the nets. Of course it was far richer and more complex than this précis, but I found it an interesting and, I admit, intellectually satisfying homily.

Everyone was very friendly at coffee, and we were able to speak to the Dean and to Rev Borg. We were entrusted with greetings to take home to San Diego, and left with good things to chew on and discuss over lunch.

Oh, I almost forgot. Trinity Cathedral has an excellent bookstore, where BP decided to invest in her own copy of the Book of Common Prayer. As we crossed through airport security on Monday, BP's bag was pulled off the line. "Do you have peanut butter or something like that in here?" asked the agent, as she opened the suitcase. Seems the BCP has suspicious qualities on the X-ray. Fortunately once it was identified and examined, it made the grade, but it clearly has unsuspected potentcy. So be careful how you travel!

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Mele Kalikimaka: Christmas in Hawai'i


In 1820, King Kamehameha II announced to his Hawai'ian people the end of the system of taboos, or kapu, the end of the traditional gods, and thus the end of the highly structured, ritualized society of old Hawai'i. Not long thereafter, the first American missionaries, of a strict Calvinist tradition, arrived, presumably finding fertile ground in the disruption that followed Kamehameha's announcement. The Catholics also came (see previous discussion of the remarkable St Damien of Molokai).

In 1860 or thereabouts, King Kamehameha IV and his wife Queen Emma (who was a noted philanthropist and life long Anglican), invited the Bishop of Oxford (UK) to send missionaries of the Church of England. The King and Queen were responsible for the translation of the Book of Common Prayer into Hawai'ian, and are revered to this day in the Anglican liturgical calendar (More on this from Padre Mickey). Thus the Anglican tradition gained a foothold on these volcanic islands, being officially established in 1862. Some of the church history can be found here. The islands lost their independence and their monarchy when annexed by the US in 1898, and just celebrated their 50th year of statehood.

The oldest Episcopal church in the islands is Christ Church in Kealakekua, on the west side of the Big Island, established in 1867. A small chapel, perched in the dense jungle green 1500 feet above the sea, it stands today overlooking an old graveyard. From their website:
The nave, built by Rev. Williamson, was the schoolhouse for immigrant children, mostly British, and a house of worship for native Hawaiians. The present steepled church, begun by Rev. Williamson, is the oldest Episcopal Church in Hawaii, 142 years old and still functional. Queen Emma attended worship services here.


And it was to Christ Church that the traveling BP and IT, with kids, found their way for Sunday Mass and for Christmas eve celebration. (We were visiting the Kona Coast for a family Christmas reunion.) Our drive to the church led from the sere lava flats under Mt Hualalai, past the town of Kailua, and then climbing through the more rural communities along highway 11 into the dense green of the hillside. Services were held in the community center adjacent to the old building (to our disappointment, I admit) although we were able to see the cozy interior and the remarkable windows of the original church after the 10am Sunday service, thanks to the friendly Warden, Doug. (The photo below shows one of the windows, featuring tropical fish such as the humuhumunukunukuapua'a, and the Moorish Idol). Christmas Eve was preceded by an enthusiastic carol sing, and the entire congregation helped Fr Jim, their temporary priest, pronounce Mele Kalikimaka! (which means Merry Christmas). Fr Jim also filled in at bass in the choir and instructed a young thurifer in the correct handling of the thurible.

Parts of the service were also in Hawai'ian, for example this:
Ho`o nani ka
Makua mau 

Ke Keiki me ka
Uhane no, 

Ke Akua mau 

Ho`o mai ka`i, pu,

Ko ke ia ao, ko ke la ao 

Amene

Which is basically
Praise God from Whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts.
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. 
Amen.

The congregation is small, and seeking a new rector whom they hope will grow the community amongst young people and other groups in this area. The community right now is mostly white and older, but their enthusiasm and warm welcome to us were striking and there is a clear vibrancy among them. They have a lot to offer and I hope they are successful in their call. (We met one of the candidates, whom we liked very much, and will be interested to learn whom they choose). Again, from their website:
Diversity is accepted here. Whether we are conservative or liberal, traditional or progressive in our religious values, politics or lifestyles, all are welcome here. We are not called to agree, we are called to share the Lord's Supper as one family. We are called to walk a faith journey together in a nurturing, compassionate, inclusive community of seekers.
There's a lesson in that, for those amongst us more prone to argue. So Mahalo Nui Loa* to Christ Church for the warm welcome and hugs, and to all, a Mele Kalikimaka me ka Hau'oli Makahiki Hou!**


Cross posted, with permission, from Friends of Jake. (IT and BP are newcomers to St Paul's.)


*Thank you very much
**Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

photos by IT, except for the images of the Kings

Monday, November 23, 2009

East Meets West

BP and I were on the road again in October, and thanks to the wonders of Google, were able to find a parish for the Sunday. The church we found is called (I kid you not) St Alban's-by-St-Andrew's, as it resides right next door to the small Cathedral of St Andrew. It's a smallish building, very strikingly built with a traditional wooden interior and cross beams. Also quite a diverse community; the ushers were a middle-aged Japanese lady and a young African man. A good turn out on a rainy Sunday.

The congregation sang robustly and were very friendly at coffee, willing to tell the visitors sites to see and places to go. The members are truly far flung in origin, with a variety of accents delighting the ear, including Australian, British, American, and Japanese-inflected English. You see, St Alban's is the English speaking Anglican congregation in Tokyo, a member of the Nippon Sei Ko Kai (Anglican Episcopal Church in Japan), where your fearless correspondent was spending a week at a conference, and the members are a range of expats and locals. Lots of kids running about too.

As you would expect, the liturgy was pretty familiar, although some of the words differ. You'd have to ask an expert to detail the differences. A nice touch was at the end, when Fr Randall asked the visitors to introduce themselves and their home parish. I nudged BP who stood up and claimed St Paul's Cathedral, San Diego. There were visitors from Florida and England as well. We took along some friends from the conference who also appeared to enjoy this cross-cultural slice, before we spent the afternoon wandering rainy Tokyo and exploring her shrines and side streets.

Blogger "IT" and her wife "BP" are new members at St Paul's. Cross posted from Friends of Jake, with permission, by St Paul Blog Moderator