Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

Bella ragazza dalla treccia bionda, Per nome vi chiamate Veneranda*

Now this picture should be the end of this story, but it isn’t. So sit back and relax, this is a happy little romp.

Grams saw a picture in a guide book of a resort named, Guido, in Viareggio. In Italy the government owns the beachfront and they lease back sections of it to private groups, who then name these sections and rent cabanas to beachgoers for the day: thus, Guido. Well, you probably realize that Gweeds is a nickname. My given name is Guido. Grams had to find 'Guido.' Okay, enough back story.

We were in Firenze, staying at the Hotel Ritz. The evening before Grams mentioned to Sergio that we wanted to go Viareggio the next day, St Stephen’s Day. Sergio said, “Ah, let me figure out which train for you to take. I live in Viareggio, so I’m very familiar with the route.” She then took out the guidebook with the picture of ‘Guido’ in it. “Do you know where this is Sergio?” He looked at the picture, “No, I’m so sorry.” So, thanking Sergio, we toddled off to bed.

The next morning there was a whole schedule for our trip to Viareggio left by Sergio who had already gone home. They do spoil us at the Ritz. After our wonderful breakfast we walked over to the train station. Grams even remembered to validate the ticket in the yellow machine. Right on time, our train left for Viareggio.

Grams was looking out the train window at the beautiful Tuscan scenery when Big Guy asked the obvious question, “Do you have any idea how you’ll find this place?” “Sure,” she said. “Want to give us a clue?” he asked. She turned around and smiled, “We’ll ask. I know that’s foreign to you boys, but I am going to ask to directions.” With that she turned around to look out the window again. I looked at Big Guy. He shrugged his shoulders.

Tuscany is beautiful, and it’s incredibly beautiful from the train. Sergio had made sure that we were on the express train, so the scenery whirred by as we relaxed in our seats. As we left the station, the train went through the countryside. Streams and woodlands opened up into broad vistas. We went by towns and farms and ancient walled cities. As we passed by Lucca, Grams read about it in the guidebook, “It’s a walled city! Oooh, I do want to see that! Not today, but maybe tomorrow.” Big Guy nodded and winked at me.

Sergio had told us that when we saw some white mountains to the right, that would be Carrara and that the white wasn’t snow, it was marble. I saw them first, “Look! Are those the white mountains?” Big Guy looked at the mountains while Grams checked the map, “Yes! It’s Carrara! We’re almost to Viareggio.”

However, we weren’t prepared for the station in Viareggio. It looked like a huge white ocean liner. “Oh look!” said Grams, “It’s a big white art deco ship!” It was built during the ‘30s by Il Duce. There’s a lot of art deco fantasy architecture around Italy. But that’s another story.

We got off the train and Grams ran off to find a taxi, figuring that a taxi driver would know where ‘Guido’ was located. This is were the story gets even better.

But that’s for tomorrow – to be continued

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*Beautiful girl with the blonde braids, for her name, we call her Veneranda

Perfect Numbers

Yesterday I said that the perfect number of children is the number you have. Well, here’s the Grams with her darlings 30 years ago. This is a picture of perfection itself.

Now, that’s not to say that it was all tickety-boo all the time. Ups and downs are part of anyone’s life. But, if Grams were to sit down and go over it, I doubt that she’d change a thing.

This is an important point. Do you dwell on the past, living a life of regret? Or, do you live your life the best you can and try to learn from your mistakes (because there’ll be plenty of them)?

I showed this picture to Grams and she said, “Oh my, you know whenever I dream about them, this is the age they are.” Then, she put the picture down and cupped her hand under my chin. “But I’m glad they’re grown up. They’re good people. I’m proud to be their Mom.” ‘Nuff said.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

Perfect numbers

This is a picture of Jody and her sister. Jody works with Grams at the library. When she saw the picture I posted of the Grams in Venice, she told Grams, “I have a goofy picture of myself when I was a kid.”

Now this was supposed to make Grams feel better, but look at that picture. Jody’s the one on the right. Isn’t she the cutest? It was taken at the Hearst Castle (San Simeon). If that’s the worst that she can up with it, then she can’t hold a candle to the Queen of Frump (AKA Grams).

What all this made me think of was the concept of perfect siblings. It seems to me that children always feel that they have a perfect sibling: the sibling who can do no wrong in their parents’ eyes. Does the perfect sibling know that they are ‘perfect’?

It made Grams remember someone who once told her that one should only have even numbers of children. Mind you, this came from a woman who had 5 children. So, we can assume that she spoke from experience.

Here’s the basis for the theory: even numbered children always have someone to play with; that is they have to get along their sibling if they want a playmate. However, with an odd number of children there is always a negative dynamic: an even number of siblings will gang up against the odd numbered. Grams said that this woman said that this is true whether the number is 3 or 13.

In mathematics a perfect number is one that is the sum of its divisors and can be divided by those numbers.

How about an example: 6 is a perfect number. 6= 1+2+3.

Another? 28=1+2+4+7+14. Got the idea?

Next comes 496. 496=1+2+4+8+16+31+62+124+248.

Did the ‘31’ trip you up?

Me too. The only thing I can figure out is if you add up the 1,2,4,8, and 16; you get 31 and if you divide 496 by 16 you get 31. If you divide 496 by 62 you get 8. And so on.

So, perfect numbers may be even, but they are composed of even and odd numbers. Also, 'perfect' numbers only exist in abstract mathematical computations. In real life there is no perfect number. And it’s the same thing with children. The perfect number is the number you have. Grams has 3 children and me. Go figure.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

“Ne me tirez pas avec le pistolet; je joue le piano seulement!”*

Grams has recovered from my revelation about her philosophical thoughts yesterday. Actually, her 3-way mirror idea is a great one. I just think that she needs one herself when we travel.

She says that she dresses for comfort. An overstuffed sofa is comfy too, but you don’t want to look like one. I’m sure that I’m in trouble again so I’ll change the subject.

We were watching the telly the other evening and I had the clicker. I surfed around until I found a show where an older comedian was being interviewed on a show. He was wearing a sweat suit and sandals with white socks. A pair of very dark sunglasses sat prominent on his face and he had a baseball cap on his head.

“Oh my, he’s looked into the abyss,” said Grams. “Huh?” said Big Guy and I. “Well, look at him, he’s horribly depressed. He used to be a snappy dresser, now he looks like a street punk. This is so sad. Look at his body language, he hardly has any energy. He’s slouched down in that chair.”

“What do you mean about this ‘abyss’?” I asked. She leaned back, “Do you remember my concept of ‘the darkest part of the longest night?” This is something that Grams believes everyone must go through at some time over their lives: each of us comes to the darkest part of the longest night when we have nowhere to look for answers but into our own soul. It is the measure of the person how we emerge from that night. Well, at least according to Grams.

“Of course, butI still didn’t get what the ‘abyss’ meant.” “Well, Gweeds,” she said, “when you look into your own soul in that long night, what do you think you’ll see?” I shrugged my shoulders, “an abyss?” “If that’s all there is in your soul, that’s what you’ll see.” “I get it,” said Big Guy, “you think that he saw an abyss.”

“Exactly, he’s a very wealthy man and he looks as if he’s reached his ‘eye of the needle’ moment.” “Eye of the needle?” “That’s for another time Gweeds,” Grams said as she hugged me.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*“Don’t shoot me; I’m only the piano player!”

The picture was taken at the top of the Empire State Building.

Into the land of Bozos, through a glass bizarrely

When Grams saw my post yesterday, she blew a fuse. Harrumph! The woman has no sense of humor. What she needs to do is follow her own philosophical advice and look in a 3-way mirror.

In the event that I’ve never told you about the Grams’ 3-way mirror philosophy, here it is: she believes that if everyone were issued a 3-way mirror when they were born, peace would reign on the earth. Why, you ask. Well, when a person looks at themselves in a 3-way, they have to face the truth. With a regular mirror, you can trick yourself into think, “Hey, I’m cool! I rock!”

But with a 3-way mirror, there’s your butt saying, “Not so fast, I’m hanging out here. They may not see me coming, but they’ll see me going!”

Or how about the side view with the gut jiggling, “Woo Hoo, Who do you think you’re fooling?!? You buy pants with the same waist size you wore in high school, but your inseam is 10 inches shorter because you’re wearing the waist band under your belly! Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha!”

So, Grams figures that if everyone had to look at themselves in a 3-way mirror we’d all be a lot more tolerant toward each other because we’d have to face the truth. She dug out this picture from a trip to Rome a few years ago. That’s Big Guy with the toga statue. “Doesn’t that embarrass you?” asked she. Well, no because I got him to do it.

This picture was at the Baths of Diocletian. The baths were built in the late 3^rd century by the emperor. They had all the amenities of Roman baths: a Calidarium, a Tepidarium, and a Frigidarium. But these baths had even more including a library. 3,000 people at a time could bathe there.

During the Renaissance, Michelangelo designed an amazing church and garden there. The statues were in the garden.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Medecins sans Frontieres (Doctors without Borders).

On this 60th anniversary of the liberation of the Nazi death camps, please remember that tolerance is the essence of human existence.

Addio la mia bellezza, più non vedrò il cielo*

Before we talk about the obvious, let’s look at the background. This is Venice, Italy. Now Grams had seen a movie where they said that if you kissed the one you love under the Bridge of Sighs at sunset that you’d return to Venice.

I don’t know how someone could make up something romantic about the Bridge of Sighs. It got its name back in the days of the Doge. The Doge’s palace is the building on the left. The building on the right is the prison.

All a Venetian had to do to accuse another citizen of a crime was to slip an anonymous note through the Mouth of Truth. It’s a face carved in the wall of the palace with a hole in the mouth. Yes, you get the picture.

Then the accused was dragged before the Doge and the other city papas and had to defend himself. Lest you think that these were all just ordinary citizens of Venice, one of the prisoners was Casanova.

So, when prisoners where taken over the bridge to the prison they would sigh because they knew that they would never see the sky again. The prison is a dank and dismal place. You wouldn’t want to be there without a space heater and satellite TV.

Now, about the Grams. You have to admit that I’m a tolerant fellow to travel with a woman who dresses like that. I’ve tried to find a word that sums her up, but no one word covers it. Dumpy? Declassé? Embarrassing? I mean, check out the shoes. No, it’s the hat, isn’t it? Maybe it’s the coat. Oh, it’s just the overall effect. Only she can put together a look that’s so perfectly wonderfully awful.

This was first time we went to Venice. It rained. The second time, it rained and flooded. There will be no third time.

Oh, yeah, Casanova escaped from the prison in Venice and lived to write about it.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*Farewell my beauty, I will no longer see the sky

Through fair fields and meadows---Thro' country and town.

Can you imagine being in a field and seeing a canal boat serenely float by? Better yet, how about floating ‘through’ the fields of England? I don’t do water, but Grams has this fantasy about floating all around Britain on a canal boat.

There are a lot more canals in Britain than I realized. This canal is in Chester. We had just come out from a pub lunch and we found these canal boats. They were obviously well-loved and maintained. Canal boats inspire all kinds of artwork. It’s always worth a peek over the rail to see what flights of fancy may be around the deck.

Look at the seaside town with its lighthouse on the doors. Of course this canal boat would never get near the seaside, so it is a flight of fancy.

These boats are live-aboard. They are definitely people’s homes but the owners do sometimes let them out. Well, I’d check into a B&B while Grams floated around the canals. Big Guy would probably join me. We’d wave to Grams from our window.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*Full free o'er the water our bonny boat glides,

Nor wait we for fair winds, nor stay we for tides;

Through fair fields and meadows---Thro' country and town.

All gaily and gladly, our course we hold on.

From the lake to the river -- from river to lake,

Full freighted or light, we still leave a wake;

From the west bearing all that a rich country yields,

To the labor which makes the morn glad in the fields.

Retuning again from the river's bright breast,

Bear the products of climes far off, to the west--

And add to the backwoodsman's comfort and ease,

All that commerce can give by its spoils of the seas.

The City of Toys

Wouldn’t this be a wonderful place? Toys are everywhere in the city of toys. It appears that these children just have to ask and whatever they wish for is theirs.

Here’s the larger question: What if we could have everything we wanted? Would we be happy? If our appetites were satiated, then what would we dream about? What desires could we conjure?

Perhaps if we spent just one day in the city of toys and then went back to our ordinary lives. Because the ability to dream comes from want and who among us would want to surrender his or her dreams?

Not the Gweeds.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

On and about the Pont-Neuf

One of my favorite times in Paris is the winter. In the winter the light is soft and the days are short. The sun never gets too high in the sky in the winter and it sets a little after 4 PM. The lights of Paris come on as the light of day slowly fades.

On this January day we were walking back to the left bank. As we passed the Louvre, we came to Pont des Arts. The Pont des Arts is a walk bridge and we enjoy strolling over it. We looked to the left and the lights had just come on the Pont Neuf. In French, Pont Neuf means New Bridge. This new bridge was built in the late 1500s. Ain’t that a hoot?

We had crossed over the Pont-Neuf on New Year’s Eve. It was just beyond there on the side of the Seine that we had watched the Eiffel Tower light up and the fireworks rise to the skies from the Place de la Concorde.

Now we were looking at it just as the lights came on. This is a magical time in Paris. The sky loses all its color and lights start to come on everywhere. Finally, the night turns inky black and Paris is lit up everywhere. It is the city of light.

Confession: all seasons are my favorite time in Paris, and magic is everywhere all the time.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

Bras-dessus, l’amour dans l'après-midi*

What is she thinking? Is she hoping that her Prince Charming will come along? She appears to be the Bridesmaid, but why is she off there by herself? Is she looking for someone, something? The bride is looking over her shoulder at her. Most of all, she doesn’t seem happy on this happiest of all occasions.

It was mid-afternoon in Paris. We have gone to the ‘Turner, Whistler and Monet’ exhibition, but the line was so long that we had decided to try again the next day. We stolled back along the Champs Elysées, since it was such a nice day. We could hear the Tuileries calling us.

As we approached the Place de la Concorde we saw a limousine. Then, we saw a second limousine, then a third, and a fourth. There were limos all around the Place de la Concorde.

It was then that we noticed all the groups of people. They were all Asian and each group was a wedding party. Each wedding party had its own photographer. Each photographer was waiting to take pictures of each wedding party. Hmmm, as I was going to St. Ives . . .

I tugged on Grams’ coat and nodded toward the bride and groom. She immediately understood: I wanted pictures. Big Guy waited for us while we ran over to get some shots of the wedding party. Most of the groups were huge (one party had rented a bus for goodness sake!), but this one appeared to be just the happy couple and their best man and bridesmaid.

The mystery was never solved. Perhaps she was waiting for the rest of the party to arrive.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

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

*Arm in arm, love in the afternoon