Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

La Purisma, La Prurisma I adore you

When I heard that La Purisma Mission might be closed in July, I begged Big Guy and Grams to take me up there so I could take some pictures of it. So, off we went with a picnic lunch and my new DSLR.

I’ve always loved this mission since the first time we went there. It’s not located in an urban or suburban setting as most of the other missions are. Well, San Miguel isn’t too crowded in, but it is right next to the highway.

La Purisma is set in a little canyon area with woodlands and fields around it. Now, it’s true that mission was almost completely reconstructed by the CCC in the 1940s (it was re-dedicated on the morning of 7 December 1941). But, I have to think that the re-creators were fairly historically accurate.

It was warm on the day we went there, but inside the adobe walls it was a good 20 degrees (F) cooler. Everything was in bloom and it never felt crowded. Going through the mission, you can see just how the mission operated. They had to grow their own fruit, grain and veg and raise their own cattle. Then, they had to turn those into food and clothing and furniture. They also had to supply food for the Presidio in Santa Tourista where we live.

It wasn’t just the padres and the Chumash Indians. There was also a platoon of Spanish soldiers. So, there was plenty of work to go around. Most of it, of course, fell on the backs of the Chumash. You can really tell the pecking order in the accommodations.

If you would like to see more of these pics, you can go to my Flickr page.

A dopo e Moochas Smoochas,

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

And, of course

平和 に 働 き

(heiwa ni hataraki: work for peace)

What made you think that I was one of those girls?*

Picture this: it’s St. Stephen’s Day and we’re in Viareggio, Italy. St. Stephen’s Day is the day after Christmas day. In the UK, it’s Boxing Day, but that’s another story.

We were in Viareggio on St. Stephen’s Day because Grams had seen a picture in a DK tour book and had to go see it. The picture was of a beach establishment called, Guido. It did have something to do with the fact that my given name is Guido, but can you imagine such a folly? In Italy, the state owns the shoreline and, in turn, the state leases parcels of it to groups who then erect cabañas and, for a small sum, a person can spend the day on the beach complete with a place to change. Viareggio has a ton of such establishments. They’re cheek-to-jowl all along the shoreline. We got on a train and headed off for Viareggio early in the morning with absolutely no idea of where to find ‘Guido.’

The train station in Viareggio is an ode to modernism. It looks like a ship that somehow got stranded on land. It has porthole windows and a massive profile. We hopped off the train and went to the front of the station to find a taxi.

Grams had the picture of ‘Guido,’ and showed it to the cab drivers assembled there. They all scratched their heads. No one seemed to know where ‘Guido’ was located. Finally, one driver said, “I think I know where it is!” We hopped in his cab and went for Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. I closed my eyes and a lifetime later we arrived at Guido. Of course, it being the middle of winter, Guido was closed. Big Guy took this picture of me and then we walked down the boardwalk.

Everyone was dressed in their finery. There was a happy holiday mood in the air. From out of the air (which were loudspeakers on tall posts) voices speaking in rapid-fire Italian were jabbering away. All of a sudden the voices stopped and it was Bing Crosby singing, “White Christmas,” in English! Then, we saw the sight that knocked our socks off. A woman wearing a mink coat was bicycling up the boardwalk toward us. Grams smiled and said, “Fellini didn’t make it up.” She was right. It was all there. It was a truly Fellini moment.

As we've gone through Italy, everytime since, we would experience many more of these ‘moments Fellini.’ All we had to do was watch. Now, the reason I was thinking of this particular memory was because the other morning it was a miserable 28° (-4° Celsius). I was sipping my hot cocoa and Grams was standing at the coat closet trying to decide what to wear. Finally, Big Guy suggested she wear her mink coat. “We’re not in Italy!” she protested. “Would it help if I hum White Christmas?” asked Big Guy. She wore the coat and was toasty warm all the way to the library where she works. Yes, the picture is ‘Photoshopped.’ Grams was not naked under the mink.

The rest of the story: well, you had to know with our Grams that it wouldn't end there, right? When she came out from work, wearing her mink, and got on her bike she found it very hard to pedal. Of course, she had her iPod cranked up to 10 decibels above the threshold of pain; so it took her a while to sense the strange thumping coming from her back wheel. She got off her bike and found the the tyre was flat. We found her half way home, looking a bit bedraggled, walking her bike. As I hopped into her basket I couldn't help chuckling, "it's that mink, you know. It's bad luck." "You can take your opinions and stuff them in a sock, mister!" she snapped. Then, we walked home in silence. Big Guy fixed the flat. She hasn't worn the mink since.

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)

*He bought me the fur thing five winters ago,
And the gown the following fall,
Then the necklace, the hat and the shoes,
That was late '48, I recall.
Then last night in his apartment,
He tried to remove them all,
And I said as I ran down the hall:

Take back your mink,
Take back your pearls,
What made you think that I was one of those girls?
Take back the gown,
The shoes and the hat,
I may be down, but I'm not flat as all that.

I thought that each expensive gift you'd arranged was a token of your esteem,
When I think of what you want in exchange,
It all seems a horrible dream (eek).
So, take back your mink,
To from whence it came,
And tell them to Hollanderize it for some other dame!

Take back your mink,
Take back your pearls,
What made you think that I was one of those girls?
I'm screaming:
Take back the gown
Take back the hat,
I may be down, but I'm not flat as all that.

I thought that each expensive gift you'd arranged was a token of your esteem,
When I think of what you want in exchange,
It all seems a horrible dream, ah!
Take back your mink,
Those old worn out pelts,
And go shorten the sleeves for somebody else!

-from ‘Guys and Dolls’ music and lyrics by Frank Loesser

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.

La Muerte está en el Ojo . . .

One of my favourite days of the year is The Day of the Dead. I can’t explain it. I know that many folks think that it’s positively morbid, but just the thought of it cheers me. Maybe it’s all the colours, maybe it’s just the silliness of it all.

It’s part of the culture of Mexico. They treat death in a whole different way. The dead are friendly characters. There’s nothing sad or morbid about it. It started in prehistoric Mexico as a way to honour children and the dead. There was even a “Lady of the Dead” who protected the children and the dead. The soul of the departed was brought back to the bosom of its family. La Dia de los Muertos was originally celebrated in July, but the priests who came with the conquistadors decided that it would be better to celebrate the pagan holiday to coincide with All Soul’s Day, the 1st of November, in order to make it more Christian.

What I like best are the little confections that are made to look like skeletons and skulls. Sometimes they’re made out of pan dulce, sometimes just sugar. Of course, happening right after Halloween, I usually have my quota of sugar by then.

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)

Schönheit ist im Auge . . .*

Vienna is a very contradictory city. It’s beautiful to look at and it has some of the best art around. At the same time is has ghosts that seem to dog your steps and permeate the air you breathe.

We had gone there for the beauty and ran smack dab up against the past. Grams had misgivings about visiting Vienna. She swore long ago not to visit any country that had in any way collaborated with the Nazis. I quietly pointed out that would severely limit our vagabond ways, and that much of Europe including France and Italy would not be destinations. That did it for her. But, it did take a while to get her to Austria.

That said: Vienna was everything we thought it would be and nothing that we expected. Yes, that statement is at odds with itself, but I will explain. The art was there. The buildings in central Vienna, many rebuild from the devastation of WW II, were beautiful. The buildings constructed after the war, many of which were chock-a-block huge concrete monstrosities, were generally hideous. It’s the only word I can find to describe them. Our hotel room, high in a promontory overlooking the city, afforded us an unobstructed view of row after row of these odes to ugly. It made me long for the phony baloney Spanish of our little Santa Tourista.

Ah, but the art. Vienna not only is a depository of some of the world’s greatest art, it has some of the most exciting contemporary art around. The piece in the photo is an example. We were on a quest to find as many Klimts and Schieles as we could when we happened upon the foyer of another museum. We had to climb a bit to get to the entrance, so I plunked my bum down a convenient bench. I was rubbing my feet when Grams elbowed me and said, “Look up!” That’s what I saw. Isn’t it gloriously silly? It looked like a giant light bulb to me. There is was, just floating above the foyer.

As it turned out, there were no Klimts there, but I was able to spend a few minutes with a bit of whimsy that pleased my eye and brightened my day.

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)

*Beauty is in the Eye . . .

An ode to the humble fire plug

Ah, the lowly the fireplug. In the United States, fire plugs are taken for granted. They’re on every corner. Sometimes they leak. Sometimes the firemen come ‘round and test them to make sure that they’re in working order (the fire plugs, not the firemen). Sometimes, city children will open them them on a hot summer's day and run through the water. The ubiquitous fireplug just sits there waiting for the moment when it's needed to do its job.

Sometimes people get playful with the old fire plug. Its shape does, after all, lend itself to certain amount of anthropomorphism. Its got a little head at the top and a couple of little arms. Sometimes it has a little extra knob down there, but I’m not going to get into that.

In the U.S. the fire plugs tend to be squat little things, usually a bright yellow colour. But they’re different all over the world. Some countries don’t even have them. In Wales, for example. This is something that I’ve never noticed, I have to say. It was when Marian and Emlyn came to visit us and Marian asked, “What’s that?” She was pointing at a fire plug. “It’s a fire plug, silly,” I said. That’s when she explained that there aren’t any in Wales and didn’t I ever notice that? She made me promise to take some photos of our fire plugs and email them to her.

So, when we got to Vienna, I grabbed Marian’s hand as we left a museum and pointed this one out. Not only was it a wonderful shape, it was painted in a gloriously silly way.

You never know what’s around the next corner.

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)

Undercover at Schloss Schönbrunn

Sometimes, when we’re travelling I find that my short legs keep me at the end of the line. I just can’t seem to keep up with Big Guy and Grams. But, this unfortunate circumstance of heredity has allowed me to see things that others might miss.

This photo is a case in point. We were strolling around the grounds of the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna, when I saw this statue. Why it was covered up, I’ll never know. I thought that maybe in the winter the statues were covered up to protect them against the elements. But, it was spring. As a matter of fact, it was almost Easter. Maybe, the cover comes off on Easter Sunday. As I said, I’ll never know.

By the way, doesn’t that sky look great? I was gobsmacked every day that we were in Vienna by the skies. The weather moves very fast through Vienna. The storms are fierce and the clearing skies are amazing. Frankly, I was expecting leaden skies after watching, “The Third Man.” Grams had made me watch it before we went. Needless to say, I was very pleasantly surprised by the beauty of it.

Ooooh, all this makes me think of Sacher Torte. Yummy, yummy chocolately Sacher Torte.

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)

What were they thinking?

I woke up Thursday morning to the news of a new terror threat. No, it wasn’t Grams threatening to make me ride to work with her on her bike; it was a real threat this time. To say that I don’t understand this stuff would be an understatement.

I have a myriad of questions, but three immediately come to mind:

First, why are people who plan to blow up themselves and other people called “martyrs”? A martyr is someone who isn’t pro-active in bringing about his or her death. A martyr is persecuted by others. A martyr doesn’t kill innocent strangers.

Second, why did George W. Bush refer the people behind this plot as, “Islamic-Fascists”? Haven’t these people just hijacked Islam for a twisted psycho plot? They’ve used the Muslim faith as cover to commit acts that coulldn't have been what the Prophet meant.

Third, what makes them 'Fascists'? Is that just a convenient way to link them somehow with Hitler and Mussolini and the Axis powers of World War II? Is it to make George W. Bush seem more FDR-like? Can we not rise above the political machinations, or is that all that our solons have left in their bag of tricks?

Aside from finding ways to identify the un-identifiable, we find ourselves, once again, trying to find logic in something that is illogical to us. I wish I could understand how someone would come to the point where he/she wants to kill for his/her cause. There have always been people who were willing to do this. Each generation gives them another name. At the turn of the last century, they were called anarchists. At the turn of this century, we called them terrorists.

But whether we call them anarchists, terrorists, madmen, or fools; they are out there and they want to kill people that they don’t even know. They want to kill people because of an accident of birth. Were you born in an industrialized, secular nation of the west? Then, you are their target. You have a bull’s eye on your back. Were you born a Shi’a in an artificial nation called Iraq? Were you born a Sunni in that same country? Were you born a black African in Darfur? Were you born a Tutsi in Uganda? Were you born in Cambodia? Then, you know what it’s like to have a bull’s eye on your back.

It’s impossible to make logic of any of this. It’s like trying to understand the mind of a serial killer. You’ll never bridge that gap. Nor do you want to. Frankly, I don’t want to have empathy for someone who kills with premeditation. I just want them to go somewhere where they can’t hurt anyone. But, they won’t. Hate can grow more intense than any other emotion we're able to muster. Can we laugh with the same intensity? Can we love with the same intensity? Can love or laughter consume us for as long a time as hatred? Why, of all the emotions, are we willing to nurse hatred at our bosoms like a beloved child rather reject it like the snake that it is?

I know that you don’t want to sit there shaking in your boots ‘til the end of your days. So, here’s something for you to do. Keep thinking, “there’s no job too small! I can do something right here, right now, that will change the world in a positive way!” Don’t just sit there! Make the world a better place than how you found it.

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)

All things change, but some things change more

I know that I have told you many times about our favourite church in Florence, Santa Croce. It was always everything the huge Duomo was not: intimate, warm and a wonderful place to just sit and contemplate the life.

It has beautiful frescos and the tombs of Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli, and Marconi among others. When it was built it was outside protection of the city walls. It was a working class church and it still feels like that. In contrast, the Duomo was always a triumphant statement to the wealth of Florence. The two churches were completely different experiences.

On earlier visits, we would enter both churches by the front doors. The Duomo had extravagant decorations in the Christmas season. Grams is always fond of standing in the spot where Lorenzo the Magnificent and his brother were attacked by the Pozzi family and their henchmen in the ‘Pozzi Plot.’ Then, she would go over to the room where Lorenzo hid from the plotters, wounded and bleeding. After that we always have to go by the Palazzo Pozzi where papa Pozzi’s head ended up as a door knocker. For Grams, this is the ultimate dichotomy between the triumph of humanism and reason and the fury of the mob.

At Santa Croce, we would always be overwhelmed by the greatness lying there. How could some much genius be there? It’s a much more intimate church than the Duomo. During certain religious holidays, they display a relic of the true cross in the sacristy. The gardens and cloister are respites from the hubbub of the city.

But something has happened at Santa Croce. When we approached the church, the front doors were closed. We had to enter by a side door. There is now a charge of €5. This would have been fine, if the experience inside were the same, but it wasn’t the same at all. There are ropes that keep you from approaching any of the famous tombs. The most beautiful of frescos are roped off and can’t be seen at all. There are scaffolds everywhere at the moment and restorations are proceeding.

It was an entirely different experience. “Our Santa Croce is gone,” Grams sighed. “The money-changers have taken over temple,” added Big Guy. He’s not one to mince his words. We left the church and sat on the front steps. The Piazza of Santa Croce hasn’t changed at all.
The warm afternoon sun felt so good, we couldn’t move. We all sat there and people-watched. The souvenir stand in front of us was disassembled and put away in a tiny van by the workers. When they had finished and closed the last door, we started clapping. Soon everyone on the steps was clapping. The experience inside was just a memory and we were happy in the Florentine sunshine.

Marian and Emlyn have left for Venice. We saw them off at the train station. There were hugs and kisses and tearful farewells. Now it’s just the 3 of us once again.

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)

Ciao tutti!

Ah, Italia! We are back again in Florence and it feels so good. Grams has switched from her very bad “German” to Italian. Since she’s much better at Italian it’s much more pleasant to listen to her now. As to German, she said that being around German-speakers reminded her of her maternal grandfather. The simple German that he had taught her as a child came back with a rush. But, I can tell that she’s happier now in the land of Dante.

We had to change trains at the Maestre station just outside of Venice. There we had a simple lunch and waited for the Eurostar. The trains in Europe have a much smoother ride than in the U.S. We think that it’s because of the concrete sleepers (ties). The Eurostar is very modern and sleek, but it doesn’t have the compartments like the older train we had taken from Vienna. In the Maestre, Grams purchased our tickets at the easy ‘fast’ ticket machine. Slip the credit card in, choose your seat arrangement and easy peasey your ticket pops out.

We slept a bit on the Eurostar and it pulled into Santa Maria Novella station at exactly 5:30 p.m.: right on time. Then, Grams was poetry in motion. She motioned to everyone to follow her and she whipped through the crowds, pulling 2 rolling bags, to the taxi stand and before your could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” we were zipping through the streets of Florence. Grams was chattering away with the driver about the upcoming election on Sunday. In a few minutes, we pulled up in front of the Ritz and Federica was there to greet us.

‘Ciao tutti’ all around, moochas smoochas, and I fell into Federica’s arms. I’m in my happy place. Our usual room (#23) was waiting for us. Nothing had changed. Federica had made sure that Emlyn and Marian had exactly the same room, one flight up. Then, she showed us the reservations she had made for us at the Uffizi and the Academia. Everything was as smooth as silk, as always at the Ritz. We fell into our beds, and slept soundly, happy to be here.

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)