Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

Folly is as folly does

Portmeirion is an Italianate Folly that was built in the early part of the 20th century. Grams has wanted to see it for years because one of her favourite TV shows was filmed there: The Prisoner. It was a kind of existential spy drama. The main character was an ex-spy whom the government wouldn’t allow to quit. So, he was kidnapped and put in this strange little town and followed about by a big ball and watched over by CCTVs everywhere he went (how prescient!). Anyway, she used to watch faithfully back in the olden days (the 60s) and drool over Patrick McGoohan, the star of the show. So, we had to go there.

It is an amazing place. I had the camera. Bronwyn was busy with Declan (AKA, the child). He was into everything. It was an incredible day filled with sunshine and warmth. Portmeirion really ought to be seen that way. We had ice cream cones and strolled.

The estuary is one, like so many in Wales and England that empties completely at low tide and has a tidal surge when it fills again. While we were there it was empty. Grams was hoping to see a tidal surge, but there was none to be had. She’s also hoping to see the Northern Lights while we’re in Scotland, we’ll see.

Portmeirion is atypical of Wales, but the eccentricity that created is endearingly Welsh. Near to Portmeirion is town called, Porthmadog. Legend has it that in the 1100s Madog, a Welsh prince, embarked on a sea voyage with his followers and actually discovered the New World. It seems that they intermarried with the locals; which is why some Mandans had red hair. They also had some Welsh phrases in incorporated into their native tongue. It may be true, or not; but it makes a darn good tale.

Today, Porthmadog is a tourist town and Portmeirion is known the world over for its crockery. You can buy seconds in the town. There are accommodations in the town, but evidently no one actually lives there. It’s kind of a storybook land. The hotel looks like the one in the movie, “Separate Tables,” only nicer. There are cottages all over the village for guests. They even have a swimming pool overlooking the estuary. The rates are quite high. You won’t see the Gweeds staying there anytime soon.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

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And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(heiwa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Oh we're the men of Texaco, We work from Maine to Mexico*

It’s going to be another warm day in Santa Tourista, Land of Eternal Spring. This morning, Grams grabbed me and put her camera backpack on my back, “Wassup?” I asked. “Come on, let’s go take photos of the old gasoline station,” she replied. I grabbed my helmet off we flew down the road. She and Big Guy pedalling, and I hanging on to the basket on her bike for dear life.

I know that I’ve told you about the old station before, but bear with me. It was a Barnsdall/Rio Grande station. Just west of it used to be a restaurant named, Wheeler’s Inn. Just west of where Wheeler’s used to be, there is an oil storage depot. It sits right on the beach front and has since the turn of the last century, I guess.

Anyway, that oil depot is the only place during World War II where the U.S. mainland was shelled by the enemy. It seems that a Japanese sub let loose a few rounds of shells one night in February of 1942. It was during one of FDR’s Fireside Chats. Scared the bejeebers out of everyone at Wheeler’s and in Santa Tourista proper some 15 miles to the east.

How do I know this? Grams told me. She’s writing a book about that period and she found it in her research. Also, we found a sign near the old station that says (basically), “Yep, it happened right here”

When we arrived this time, someone had put up some barbed wire at the back. Never let it be said that a little barbed wire stopped our Grams, oh no. She climbed right through. Why? You ask. Well, she had decided a while back that the back of the station could be an interesting angle for a photo. “I’m not going through that barbed wire!” I declared. “You don’t have to, you coward! Keep a watch out for security guards,” she whispered hoarsely as she took the camera out of the backpack.

She did get a few nice shots. It’s shame that the station is being allowed to deteriorate so badly. But, Grams thinks that’s part of its charm. I'm not so sure about that. It was the first time I’ve seen her enthusiastic all week, and that was a good thing. Yesterday, she borrowed my laptop for the whole afternoon. She had done the same thing the day before. “What are you doing?” I finally asked. I’m taking an inventory, Gweeds,” she replied. “Of what?” “Of me, all my foibles, large and small, good and bad.” “Oh, may I see?” “Not yet, I’m still working on it,” she smiled and ruffled my hair.

An inventory: Maybe I should take an inventory. Grams said that her bad list got longer and longer and her good list never quite caught up. I think that I’d concentrate on my good points first. But then that’s Grams: she’s full of self-doubt and doesn’t really trust anyone who’s not. She says that anyone who’s cocksure is headed for a fall and it’s best not to stand to close to them.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

We Are The Men of Texaco

Oh we're the men of Texaco,
We work from Maine to Mexico.
There's nothing like this Texaco of ours.

Our show tonight is powerful;
We'll wow you with an hour-full of howls
From a shower full of stars.

We're the Merry Texaco Men.
Tonight we may be showmen.
Tomorrow we'll be servicing your cars!

composed by Bernard "Buddy" Arnold, and Heywood "Woody" Kling.

When life hands you lemons . . .

The day started out without much promise. It was foggy again. Grams talked me into riding in her basket on her bike (yes, I’m a fool). This time we went up the highway all the way to the old gas station. This station was built in the early part of the last century. It’s that classic phoney baloney Spanish style that proliferates throughout Santa Tourista. Of course, this is out in the sticks, far from the hubbub of the big city of ST. I love this building. It’s supposed to have been restored, but that was promised years ago and nothing has happened yet.

We had delicious chili for lunch and then headed off to the Lemon Festival. Lemons used to be a big crop in Santa Tourista. Naturally, the trees were mostly cut down and replaced by homes a long time ago. So, every year the locals celebrate the memory of the lemons with a festival. There’re lemon bars, lemon pie, lemonade, lemon beer, lemon ice cream, lemon pizza: well, you get the drift.

We usually go to see our neighbour’s daughter dance. She is a Spanish dancer. She also plays the saxophone and the piano. So, we sit on bales of hay and yell, “Ole!” and clap madly. That's her.

Yes, I had a lemon bar and it was so very good.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

My favourite girl in the world

Anyone who has followed my travels for a while will know of my love for a certain lady. She lives in the harbour in New York, but she started life in Paris. Yes, she’s Lady Liberty. While there’s a copy of her on an island in the Seine; the place to see her up close and personal is the Musée des Arts et Métiers.

The museum is a good hoof from our hotel on the left bank, but truly worth it. There’s a café across the street from the museum that has excellent Croque Monsieur. Once your appetite is sated, you can walk across the street to the museum.

The Arts et Métiers is an amazing collection of things rational. Beside every size of Lady Liberty from miniature to life-size,
it houses every machine that humans have created. Of course, you’d think that all machines were invented by the French if you didn’t know better. But, somehow in the context of the museum, it works and it’s okay. There’s a modern building that houses most of the collection, but original museum started in an old church. Now, this is a very French thing to do. Don’t forget that at one point, after the revolution, they turned Notre Dame into a wine shop.

So, here we have the ode to rationality and modernity that has grown out of a place of worship: the worship is now to science. Eco discusses this very point in “Foucault’s Pendulum.” The Armageddon-like ending of that book takes place in the old church where Foucault’s Pendulum hangs where the altar used to be. The protagonist watches the carnage from the vestibule in the model of the Statue of Liberty. Needless to say, the first time we went there Grams and I had to squeeze into that wee place and read that scene out loud. It still sends shivers up my spine.

Now I was going to post just the one picture of the Lady’s finger, but Big Guy said, “You can’t tell the size of it from that!” So, I’ve put up one with Big Guy in it to show you. Now, he’s 6’ 2” and that finger is longer than he is tall.

Now have you ever loved something so much that you hoped that your favourite people would love it as much? That’s how I felt bringing Henri to the Arts et Métiers for the first time.
But he loved her as much as I do. He loved all of the versions of her from miniature to life-sized. As a matter of fact, the Arts et Métiers is very much Henri’s kind of museum.

It doesn’t get much better than that.












A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Verdigri and vertigo

Our favourite hotel in Paris is the St. Jacques. It’s in the 5th arrondissement very near the Sorbonne. Its location is perfect for us because it’s within walking distance of just about everything we love to see in Paris.

As with the Ritz in Florence, we have our favourite room at the St. Jacques. I get a bed just as big as Big Guy and Grams, but all to myself. In the mornings, we usually bop down the street for our petit déjeuner. “Un café, un café Americaine, et une latté, si’l vous plait,” and as many sweet rolls as I want. They usually have to wipe off the glass in front of the sweet rolls after I’ve been pressing my nose against it trying to decide. Ah, Paris.

The first time we stayed at the St. Jacques, Grams pulled me aside into a little alcove next to the lobby and whispered into my shell-like, “look up!” When I did, the staircase in the photo is what I saw. I had never noticed the stairs because we always took the teeny-tiny lift up to our room. Can you imagine walking up all of those stairs?

Actually, later on I tried walking down the stairs once and got dizzy when I went just a few steps. I retreated back up and took the lift. I’ve never tried the steps again. But, they are beautiful to look at, don’t you think? I must admit here that the wrought iron banisters do not have verdigri - but I couldn't resist the allertation.

So, here’s to looking in places that are hidden and walking down an unknown block or two. I have to admit that Grams is the one who gets us guys to do that. She’s endlessly curious and loves forms and shapes. Ooooh, now I want a Gaufre au Chocolat.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Micheangelo's Garden

We had been in Rome for a few days when Grams said, “Let’s go look at the Baths of Diocletian!” It was within walking distance of our hotel so we bundled up and hit the road.

Reading from the guidebook as we strolled, we found out that Diocletian was not a nice fellow and had gang-pressed several thousand Christians into building his pleasure domes. He was so bad that he had to, eventually, flee Rome. Diocletian’s Baths were the biggest ever built. They could accommodate 1,000s of people at once (except those Christians that helped build them – it was probably too hard to remove the shackles).

The Baths were, unfortunately, falling down that day. Literally, they were falling down. Nets were hung from the ceiling and across the open spaces. There were signs everywhere in Italian apologizing for the inconvenience and warning us of the danger. “Watch your head! The ceiling could collapse any second!” This did put a damper on our enthusiasm for the place: it’s hard to enjoy something when you’re afraid that the whole thing will come down around you any second.

The thing that we weren’t prepared for was the garden next to the Baths. The garden was designed much later by Michelangelo. It’s right in the middle of a busy city and yet it’s still a place of quiet and amazing calm. We relaxed and wandered through the garden. Of course Michelangelo’s influence can be found everywhere in Rome. Our next surprise came as we left the compound.

As we walked out to the Piazza della Repubblica, we saw a church carved into a rocky cliff. It looked as if it would be a dark solemn place, but we were gobsmacked by what we saw. It was a Baroque masterpiece filled with light. It looked as if angels might come down from the ceiling (though the ceiling looked quite safe). It turned out that the church had originally been designed by Michelangelo, but it had been rebuilt in the 1700’s. That explained the Baroque, but we did wonder what it looked like before.

We stumbled back out into the light of the Piazza and wandered back to the hotel. It was another adventure that only happened because our curiosity got the better of us.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Towering over Pisa

We had wanted to go to Pisa and Marian and Emlyn were especially keen on it. So, off we went on the #23 to the Termini: Santa Maria Novella. We immediately went to the Fast Ticket machine. There are tons of these machines in Italian train stations now. Also, they are dead easy to use. First, you pick your language and then you push a few buttons and Bob’s your uncle, you’ve got your ticket. No matter how many people are travelling together, you only get one ticket. Then, you just have to remember to validate your ticket in the little yellow box at the front of the platform. If you forget to validate, the conductor will fine you big time.

Our train was ready to leave. We followed Grams as she weaved her way through the station. Our train was leaving on binario 1 (platform 1) and it’s kind of hidden in Santa Maria Novella. Then we hopped on and settled down for our ride. Grams and I fell asleep about halfway through the trip. But, we did get to see the countryside, or what’s left of it. There are massive buildings being built all along the rail line. Mostly, they look like storage facilities. I miss the little farms and crumbling buildings. I guess this is what you call progress.

We woke up just before Pisa. We got off and headed straight for the bagni (bathrooms). The last time we were in Pisa, the train station was being fixed up and we had to use port-a-potties: it doesn’t bear remembering. This time, there were brand new bagni. Clean and well-stocked. Then we headed up for the Duomo and Tower. The clouds were beautiful and the wind was blowing. We were afraid that it would rain, but it never did. Marian and Emlyn were gobsmacked by the Tower. I have to say that it was neat to finally see without the restraining harnesses. Now it’s being restored, but it’s a beauty to behold.

We had lunch at the same restaurant that we went to 7 years ago. The lasagne wasn’t as good this time, but we enjoyed the sunshine. Afterward, we back to the Campo and Big Guy got me a gelato: vanilla. Oh yum!

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There were lots of people, but it didn’t seem crowded. The little girl in the pictures was drawing the tower. She was doing a pretty job I think. When we had seen all there was, we headed back toward the station. We went by the little Spina Church by the river, but it was closed. One of these days we’ll get to see the inside.

Emlyn went to the fast ticket machine and got our return tickets and we went to the platform. Our train was waiting again, and off we went. Everyone else but Grams and fell asleep on the way back. We checked out the countryside and all the warehouses. Also, we saw the marble mountains. A wonderful time was had by all.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(hewa ni hataraki: work for peace)

Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam . . .

Where have I been? Laptop died. Much gnashing of teeth. Grumbling and checking out sales. New laptop purchased. Software re-installed. End of story.

I’m not a big fan of Frank Lloyd Wright. I think that his ego far outstretched his engineering abilities. Yes, I know that he wasn’t an engineer; but isn’t it the responsibility of the architect to make sure that his vision will stand the test of time? In other words, an architect should make sure that his building won’t fall down. Most of Wright's buildings leak like sieves. Also, if you’ve ever been in a Wright-designed home, you’ll understand the ego of the man made manifest: he was a short man and the homes he designed are claustrophobic.

Grams can’t stand the furniture he designed. “It’s uncomfortable! And it wasn’t designed to be placed anywhere by where Wright wanted it.” Grams believes in moving furniture on a regular basis. She’s also a big fan of mid-century furniture design. You know like Eames and Noguchi. Growing up, she used think that a wonderful night out was to gaze in the windows at the Herman Miller store. Yeah, well you know, she’s delusional.

Now, Grams does love “Fallingwater.” That’s the house that Wright designed in Pennsylvania. She likes the sheer audacity of the design and the way that Wright seems to defy gravity. Of course, as with most of his designs, it leaks and needs constant upkeep to prevent it from falling into the water.

What the Grams loves is anything Japanese. Her ideal house would be a Japanese farmhouse. She’d give anything to just have a traditional Japanese house. I think that it’s because that style of house closes in on itself. She could really get away from the world there. I’m more social than that. My ideal house is an Italian farmhouse. I’ve got her looking at property in Italy. Fingers crossed.

I love the Guggenheim in New York.* I just like to stand there and look up. It undulates. It breathes. It’s not a stuffy old museum, it’s a living breathing entity. I’ve heard that it leaks too. Oh well.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

*My friend Marian took this photo, by the way.

The long and winding road

The classic definition of a city is that it is at a crossroads of commerce, it should have a port, and it will (since the early part of the 20th century) have tall buildings that proclaim the wealth and energy of the city.

I think that the ultimate definition of a modern city, though, is its subway. If the skyscrapers are the visible signs of a city’s wealth and strength, the subways are the veins, arteries and central nervous system.

There’s a pulse and a pressure in the tunnels of the subway. The tiled walls and floors lead you down to place where there is always warmth. In the summer, it’s a warmth that is sometimes more than you can bear. In the winter, however, it’s a warmth that shakes off the chilblains that attack your body at the street level. In the winter, the heat of the subway is as comforting as home.

Of course in order to feel this embrace, you must live in a city that actually feels the seasons. That’s why the pitiful little subway in Los Angeles can never affect you like the subway in New York. L.A. has glamorous stations, but it doesn’t embrace you like the N.Y.C. subway does.

In London, there are so many different subways, from so many different periods that the escalators seem to go to the centre of the earth. I got dizzy just looking down from those heights. In Madrid and Rome, the subways were a little confusing. I had to depend on the Grams to translate the station names. These were the only 2 subways where someone has attempted to mug us. Now, you’ll notice I said “attempted.” They didn’t succeed, but that’s another story for another day.

The subways of New York are my favourites. On some of the platforms in Manhattan there are some amazing art installations. My favourite is the “eyes.” But I also love the stations where the old tiles from an earlier time are so evocative. These tiles are often covered with soot, but it seems somehow right, and proper.

The tunnels leading to the platforms wind around and around. Then, there will be a staircase and the rush of hot air greets you as you descend to the platform. If the train had just left, it may a few minutes before another train appears. It’s never quiet, but for those few moments it’s calm. Then, there’s a roar and a rush of hot air and suddenly lights appear and then train is there. The doors slide open and once inside, you’re cool again.

If it’s not a peak time, not rush hour, you’ll find a seat. Then the doors slide shut. Grams likes to do Sudoku puzzles while we travel. The principessa listens to her iPod. Henri, Big Guy and I like to watch the tunnel. Sometimes we find deserted stations. Sometimes there’re adverts projected on the wall. Mostly, we keep track of the stops and then try to guess which side the door will open on.

New York wouldn’t be the city it is without its wonderful subways. They’re a treasure.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

Glory, glory Halleulah In the Union We Are Strong!

It's Labour Day in the U.S. Grams and Mama Meg have gone off shopping (an annual ritual) and we boys are relaxing, as is appropriate to the day. So, it's just a photo essay today. The Brooklyn Bridge is a little over a 1/2 mile long.
It's a leisurely walk and a beautiful view.
As you can see, I even managed to get a photo of my favourite Lady in the Harbour.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

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