Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

Remember, remember the fifth of November

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

I have found a way to distract the Grams. I reminded her that Guy Fawkes Day is upon us.

Back in 1605 a group of Catholic men decided that they wanted England to proclaim its fealty to Mother church and the Pope. So, they decided to blow up Parliament and King James the 1st along with it.

So, these fellows rented a house next door to Parliament and dug a tunnel (sounds like that Woody Allen movie, right?). Unfortunately for Guy Fawkes, he drew the short straw: he was left to light the fuse on the dynamite.

To add to his misfortune, someone in on the plot wrote a little billet doux to a certain Lord Monteagle (great name, huh?) warning him to stay away from Parliament on the 5th of November.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent to blow up the King and the Parliament.! Three score barrels of powder below, Poor old England to overthrow:! By God's providence he was catch'd With a dark lantern and burning match.! Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring. Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King! Hip hip hoorah!

You can guess what happened next, when they broke in on Guy he was trying to strike a match on his bum. He was tortured until he squealed like the rat that he was. Of course King James didn’t condone the torture. However, he did write to the inquisitors:

et sic per gradus ad mia tenditur (which basically means, gradually increase the torture until he squeals like the rat that he is).

So, the tradition of Guy Fawkes Night (or Bonfire Night) was born. Old Guy is burned in effigy (though originally it was the Pope) and people cook jacket potatoes and other goodies in the fire. In addition to the baked potato, parkin (combining oatmeal and treacle), hot soup, cocoa, gingerbread men, treacle toffee and toffee apples are also consumed. And there are fireworks, too!

Grams loves this drawing of the conspirators: Guy is called Guido, which is of course my given name.

A la prochaine.

Moochas smoochas,
Gweeds

All you need is love

I was going to do a post on Ringo Starr’s birthday today, but we awoke to something horrific. When I turned on my laptop, there was an email from our friends, Emilia and Dom, who live very near a couple of the blasts. Emilia assured us that they were okay and that Dom had not gone to work. Since he works near Russell Square, this was a relief.

Then I tried to reach our friends Marian and Emlyn. They live in Wales, but I knew that Marian and her auntie were going be visiting London. The phones weren’t functioning for a while. By the time we touched base, I was more than little frantic. It turns out that they were planning on going next week. Emlyn’s determined to go now: no miserable git of a terrorist is going get him down.

Now, I don’t usually talk about this sort of stuff; but this calls for few thoughts. I know that there will always be people who will put their theology or ideology before humanity. Somehow, they convince themselves that they can kill in the vain hope that it will advance their cause. Of course it does no such thing. It might momentarily scare some folks, but I think that most people react as Emlyn did today: they aren’t going to destroy me, my beliefs or my liberty.
After the initial chaos, people find their humanity and reach out to one another. Then, we become something more, something better than we were before. The human spirit can soar above any obstacle that hate puts before it.

I don’t know what it takes to make a person become filled with so much hate, and I don’t want to know. The rest of us will go on, we will persevere and we will prevail as long as we don’t allow their hate to permeate our souls.

So my message to the bombers is this: sod off you hate-filled wankers!

As for you, faithful readers: remember, all you need is love.
Hey, Ringo, Happy Birthday! Keep it real.

A dopo e Moochas smoochas,

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

Now the village mission bells are softly ringing, If you listen with your heart you'll hear them singing*

We have a lot of missions in California. Not all of them are consecrated, but many are still functioning parishes. My favourite mission has to the La Purisma, near Lompoc. It’s been refurbished by the state to look as it did when the padres were running it. But it’s state property now.

There’s a strange dichotomy about the missions. They are very peaceful, very tranquil places. At the same time, they hold many unpleasant memories. The tranquillity is in the gardens and in the sanctuaries. The sanctuaries are often filled with the art of the natives who built the missions. There is a juxtaposition of the Spanish influence and the native talent and love. The paintings are often amazing.

We recently visited the Santa Barbara Mission with our friends from Wales, Marian and Emlyn. When we entered the exterior garden here, the scent of mock orange surrounded us. It enveloped us. There was a mock orange plant that had been trained into a tree. It was huge. The aroma was divine. How appropriate since the garden was also a graveyard. Around the edge of the graveyard are the tombs of the wealthy citizens of old Santa Barbara. The tombs are quite impressive.

However, there is a small plaque in the middle of the garden stating that are many hundreds of unmarked graves of the local natives right there. This is repeated at the other missions. Many natives, mostly Chumash, died in the civilizing efforts of the padres. They were hastily buried and rarely remembered with a marker.

Many times death came from the normal maladies that Europeans, like the padres, had long since developed an immunity. Sometimes though, the natives were just worked to death. Even if they had been baptised, the natives were treated as different in death as they had been in life. So, you see, with the beauty there is a melancholy.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*Now the hacienda's dark, the town is sleeping;
Now the time has come to part, the time for weeping.
Vaya con Dios my darling,
May God be with you my love.

Wherever you may be, I'll be beside you,
Although you're many million dreams away.
Each night I'll say a pray'r, a pray'r to guide you
To hasten ev'ry lonely hour of ev'ry lonely day.

Now the dawn is breaking through a gray tomorrow,
But the memories we share are there to borrow.
Vaya con Dios, my darling:
May God be with you my love.

Now the village mission bells are softly ringing,
If you listen with your heart you'll hear them singing,
Vaya con Dios my darling,
May God be with you my love.

Wherever you may be I'll be beside you,
Although you're many million dreams away,
Each night I'll say a pray'r, a pray'r to guide you
To hasten ev'ry lonely hour of ev'ry lonely day.

Now the dawn is breaking through a gray tomorrow,
But the memories we share are there to borrow,
Vaya con Dios, my darling!
Vaya con Dios, my love.

- VAYA CON DIOS (MAY GOD BE WITH YOU)
(Larry Russell - Buddy Pepper - Inez James)
« © '53 Beachaven Music »

I am Bean, hear me roar!

We arrived a day early for Bean’s christening. There was an Easter egg hunt at the beach (yeah, only in California), so we took Andie and her basket. The Easter bunny and the rest of the world were there. Andie got some lap time and 3 eggs (the limit). Grams couldn’t take the crowd. She is too weird sometimes. I got this picture of Andie with Peter Cottontail. That night Henri arrived from New York and we all rested up for the big day.

You’ll notice the look on Bean’s face as looks at his dad: “They’re going to do what? Dad, Dad, you got to help me escape!” Andie poured the water in the font. Henri had done that for Andie’s christening 5 years ago. Bean actually did great until it got to the third dunk, the Holy Ghost got him and he let out a scream that was heard to the Canadian border. Well, if the spirit moves you . . .

In the afternoon, we went to the boardwalk. Henri and Andie rode the boats, and dragons, and all sorts of rides. They played in the game arcade. Even Grams got into the act: here’s the evidence. Grams loves bumper cars. I think because it’s the only kind of car she can drive and worry about hitting things. A gale moved in, the sea churned up and we looked liked drowned rats, but we had big smiles on our faces as we headed back to Andie’s house. After dinner, Grams read a story to us and we all toddled off to bed.

So, a good time was had by all and we’re on the road again. Marian and Emlyn are in New York and I’m looking forward to Thursday when they get to Santa Tourista, our little town

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

Listen, do you want to know a secret?

This is Saint Peter’s Basilica as evening approached, right after a storm, on a winter’s day.

Vatican City sits on the western perimeter of Rome along the Tiber River. Walking down the street to St. Peter’s Basilica is a step back in time. As the Basilica looms larger, you move back into the Renaissance.

One time when we went there it was a Jubilee year. That’s when they open the golden door on the right side of the front façade. Grams was so overwhelmed, we had to wait for her to go in and out and come in again, and again.

The Pieta by Michelangelo is on the right when you enter. The tragedy of the young mother holding her slain son was captured so evocatively by Michelangelo. Mary was probably no older than her mid-40s when Jesus was crucified. Your heart goes out to her. Somehow, Michelangelo was able to tap into a well of sorrow that can only a parent who has to bury a child would know.

Walking through the Basilica you can see the works of many of the greatest artists of the Renaissance. The size of the Basilica is overwhelming. Any of the alcoves can, at any moment, be holding a Mass of a hundred of the faithful. The incredible centerpiece of all this glorious art is the Baldacchino by Bernini. It is the altar that is reserved for the Pope alone and is a baroque masterpiece. Words cannot describe it.

Beneath the Baldacchino and to the right, in the floor, you will see gratings that look down to an area beneath the Basilica. That is where the grottos and the tomb of St. Peter are located. We’ve never been able to go down there. Grams keeps hoping.

What’s that secret? There are no paintings in St. Peter’s. As you walk through the Basilica, there are beautiful ‘paintings’ on the walls. The secret is that they are actually mosaics. The tiles are so minute that you’d swear that they’re paintings. Look real close and you’ll start to see what I mean.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

Christmas Eve will find me where the love light gleams*

It’s a funny thing about customs: my custom may be your oddity. We were in Italy at Christmas time. Grams and Big Guy were looking for Christmas decorations, but the decorations didn’t go up until a couple of days before Christmas Eve. There were no Santas on the street corners with bells, and none in the department stores. Then I explained to them that, outside of the U.S., Christmas is celebrated on the Epiphany: the 6th of January or Three Kings Day. This was the day that the three wise men (kings) finally made it to Bethlehem. The 12 days of Christmas start on the 25th of December and last until the 5th of January. Christmas is celebrated and presents are exchanged on the Epiphany.

So, there we were in Firenze, Italy on Christmas Eve and we decided to take a walk along the Arno. As we approached the Uffizi, we saw a crowd gathered down by the riverbank. Then we noticed a gondola. Grams thought that it was odd to see a gondola outside of Venezia. Then we saw the skinny Santas. They were taking people for rides in the gondola. Now Italy does have a version of jolly old Saint Nick, his name is Babbo Natale. But a witch named La Befana brings the presents to sleeping children on the eve of the Epiphany.

The very next Christmas we were in Madrid. In Spain the Spaniards really adhere to the Epiphany celebration. They even have one of the 3 kings instead of Santa at the Cortes des Ingles department store. You’ll remember that Corte des Ingles is turned into “Cortylandia” during the Christmas season. "Cortylandia, Cortylandia, vamos todos a cantar..." That song, once heard, cannot be forgotten.

This particular King looks a tad forlorn. I tried to cheer him. I did get a chuckle out of him, but it was a long night and many children still wanted to sit on his lap and give him their lists.

We opened our presents on the 25th of December. Old habits die hard.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*I'll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
and presents on the tree.

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams.

To surrender dreams, this may be madness – Cervantes* The Temple grows slowly, but this has always been the case with everything destined to have a long life – Gaudi*

Barcelona may just be a state of mind. How can anything so heavenly exist on earth? She sits right on the edge of the skirt of Spain as it spreads out into the Mediterranean Sea. Of course Barcelona is Catalonian not Spanish, and don’t you forget it. The Catalonians are fiercely proud of their heritage and their independence. We stayed at the Hotel Regina, right off the main plaza and very near the Ramblas.

In Barcelona there is an almost continuous public dialogue about politics, life, religion, and anything that can be discussed. Any day you can find a peaceful demonstration: one day it will be the Communists, the next day it’s the Fascists and the following day it might be Africans. These demonstrations aren’t aggressive in any way. The Catalonians are just enjoying their democracy.

Antoni Gaudí i Cornet’s architecture is the epitome of Barcelona. His vision was the ultimate expression of the Art Nouveau movement. You can see other examples of Art Nouveau all over Europe and America; but you’ll never see any better than Gaudi’s buildings in Barcelona.

It’s the Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Familia that is the over-the-top (and last) statement of Gaudi. The Sagrada Familia is the cathedral that has not yet been finished. Gaudi spent the last of his life trying to finish the Cathedral. Work had begun in 1882 and Gaudi continued to work on it until his death in 1926. He was run over by a streetcar while trying to raise funds for the cathedral.

The work continues today. The most interesting things about the cathedral can only be seen close up: It is a pastiche of found objects set in the concrete. There are bits of bottles along with mosaic tiles, and so on. The spires that look so delicate have very wee lifts in them. You can ride to the top of the spires and look out on the whole of Barcelona. It’s also another opportunity to look at the various objects that add color to the building.

One side of the cathedral has the story of the birth of Christ with, of course, the Sagrada Familia in the facade. The other side has the story of the Passion. It is the alpha and omega of the life of Christ. The whole building is so organic you might feel that you’re in a living breathing being.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical may be madness. To surrender dreams, this may be madness. To seek treasures where there is only trash...Too much sanity may be madness, and maddest of all is to see life as it is and not as it should be.
Miguel De Cervantes (1547 - 1616), Don Quixote de la Mancha

*“The Temple grows slowly, but this has always been the case with everything destined to have a long life. Hundred-year-old oak trees take many years to grow tall; on the other hand, reeds grow quickly, but in autumn the wind knocks them down and there is no more to be said"
Antoni Gaudi

Ouvrez le Louvre: King Henri in his knickers

While the drawback about the Louvre is that it’s so big, the best thing about the Louvre is that it’s so big. Since it used to be a palace, it has nooks and crannies that make the presentation of art very interesting. Grams likes this aspect of the Louvre the best. It was in one such little nook that she found this painting of King Henri IV.

Now, her appreciation of this painting goes a long way to understanding the Grams. We turned a corner in the Richelieu section of the Louvre and there was ol’ Hank himself. “Look, he’s in his knickers!” sputtered Grams.

I have to admit that he does look as if he’s in his knickers, but he’s actually making a political statement. It was painted by Toussaint Dubreuil around 1600. If you look close, Henri has his left foot firmly planted on the neck(s) of a many-headed hydra. Henri is supposed to be a 16th century Hercules. The hydra represents the Catholic League.

What did Henri have against the Catholic League? That’s a juicy story. Henri had been the King of Navarre. He was also the leader of the Huguenots (they were the Protestants). Can you see where this is going? Henri married Marguerite de Valois, a good Protestant. Then, there was a massacre on St. Bartholomew’s Day. It was organized by the Catholic King and his army and they attacked unarmed Protestant citizens.

Henri, putting his finger to the wind, decided that he could be Catholic again. Henri was a rather pragmatic fellow, which helped him stay alive in the late 1500s. Once he got away from the French court and back to Navarre, however, Henri decided that he was Protestant yet again.

Needless to say, when King Henri III of France named our Henri as his heir presumptive, the Catholic Church and aristocracy didn’t take too well to the idea. Naturally, there was a war. Henri defeated the Catholic League and succeeded as king when Henri III went on to his reward. When Henri was barred from entering Paris until he gave up being a Protestant, that’s exactly what he did again saying, "Paris is well worth a Mass”

Henri encouraged religious tolerance, promised a “chicken in every pot every Sunday,” and (after having his first marriage annulled) married Marie di Medici (a good Catholic girl with plenty of Medici moola in her dowry). He also oversaw an explosion in ideas and the beginning of a mass media spreading those ideas. Some of those notions would later be the genesis of the French Revolution. Wotta guy! So, that’s why Henri is standing around in his knickers.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

Happy Valentine's Day Bronwyn! Be my Valentine.

Sainte-Chapelle, mais oui!

Being on holiday does funny things to you. I could have sworn that I wrote about Ste. Chapelle while we in Paris, but when I went to find the piece it wasn’t there. Grams says it’s age. I say phooey! It’s jet lag. We have been back about 5 days and I finally slept through the night last night.

As to Ste. Chapelle, it is the gem of Paris. I don’t have the patience for the long lines at Notre Dame and, frankly, I think that Ste. Chapelle is far more beautiful.

Ste. Chapelle was built by King Louis IX in 1248. It seems that on his way back from the Crusades there was a guy by the side of the road who said, “Hey, Louie, wanna buy some relics?” I think that his progeny now sell “authentic” Louis Vuitton bags in lower Manhattan. I say this because it seems as if the “true” cross (one of Louis’ scores) must have been a skyscraper because you can find pieces of it all over Europe (Grams says that I am being too cynical, who knows). Anyway, Louis loaded up on relics, including the crown of thorns. As a matter of fact he spent 3/4 of the French treasury at the Relic Store on the road home from Jerusalem.

Well, when Louis got home he thought, “I can’t just have these relics lying around, I have to build a safe place to put it in and then take the relics out on holy days.” So, Louis spent the last 1/4 of the treasury to build Ste. Chapelle. The chapel itself is a series of 15 stained glass windows with a Rose window over the entrance. The windows are at least 2 stories high and the Rose window covers the entire width above the entrance.

We can only imagine what it must have looked like in the 13th century because during the French revolution everything of value was stripped off the walls. What are left are the tombs in the floor and the magnificent stained glass windows. The windows tell the stories of the Bible from Genesis through the Apocalypse. During the revolution this chapel was turned into a wine cellar. Notre Dame was a wine shop. Mon Dieu!

The French have gone a long way to redress these excesses. Ste. Chapelle and Notre Dame are now very carefully maintained. The treasures are long gone from Ste. Chapelle’s treasury, but the treasure that Louis created is still there for us all to enjoy.

Here are some tips: Go on a sunny day in the mid-morning. That way the sun shining through the windows is glorious. You have to go through the dismal downstairs now (gift shop area) and can no longer see the outside of the wonderfully carved doors to the chapel, c’est la vie. Just don’t spend too much time downstairs. The glory is on the 2^nd floor. And don’t forget to look down, there carved marble tombs of many saints and clergy are right under your feet.

By the way, I made up the story about the guy at side of road. Yeah, you knew that.

A la Prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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“Minutus cantorum, minutus balorum, minutus carborata descendum pantorum.”*

This is Foucault’s Pendulum. It lives in what was a chapel and is now part of the Musee des Arts et Metier. It seems as if it’s moving as it keeps time throughout the day. The pendulum moves around the circle and knocks down the pegs that symbolize the quarter hours.

Here’s the real deal: the pendulum isn’t moving, the earth is moving, the pendulum is just hanging there. It’s mind-boggling. Henri’s mum explained it as we stood there watching the pendulum. It was totally counter-intuitive. I was watching it move, but it wasn’t really moving at all. It’s as mysterious as the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, California. Gives me goosie-bumps.

We were there because one of Grams’ favorite books is “Foucault’s Pendulum,” by Umberto Eco. She loaned it to me, I loaned it to Meg (Henri’s mum). So, you get the picture. The book opens in this room and the dénouement is also here. It’s a horrific scene involving the Knights Templar and all kinds of other mystical and wicked folk. I won’t spoil it for you, but it’s a fantastic read.

What I like best about the Arts et Metier is the eclecticism of it. Everything that logic and science has created since the Renaissance is housed there. The grand and the humble. The very “French” thing about it is that this ode to science is housed in a former church. As a matter of fact, Foucault’s Pendulum is hanging from the dome of the chapel. In order for the pendulum to work, it must hang from a dome with a particular orientation. Don’t ask me to explain that, I don’t understand it. All I know is that it works and I love the Arts et Metiers.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

Today is Martin Luther King jr. day. We have the opportunity today to honor a true American hero and make his cause our own. "The death of any man diminishes me."

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*Translation: a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants. Proving that just because something is in Latin doesn’t make it profound. The quote is from Chuckles the Clown and if you don’t know he was, more’s the pity. Confession: I stole the picture from Henri’s mum’s blog, http://montisci.typepad.com