“Misfits Abroad” tells us “Adventures in Love, Language, and Foreign Lands.” it is a delightful read for anyone who has ever traveled to Europe and wondered. In a collection of essays spiced with humor and insights, Martine tells us her unique perspective of learning by immersion. It’s an enriching, amusing story.
All-American girl Martine takes an Army crash course in German. Coming from Fort Huachuca, she dives into the foreign land. Mind you, her Volkswagen rabbit is transferred to its home country as well. The first action in Bremerhaven is to push start the groggy yellow rabbit. No push-pull-engage-the-clutch gets it going. Rabbit needs mechanical help.
Settling in with Zwetschgenkuchen
And so the adventures of discovery continue. The new apartment has no ceiling lamps or appliances, but everywhere there is a “Schrank” (wardrobe). And how exactly do you behead a boiled egg? It takes a perfect swipe with a knife. Finally, the neighbors bring Zwetschgenkuchen, only to demand perfect quiet time in the afternoons.
Life in Germany shines a new light on Martine’s American upbringing. She learns the Army wife privileges of clearance and PX, appreciates the discounted souvenirs at the base, but also ventures out to Wertkauf. She has stories to tell about German men doing “Kegel exercises,” confused Army brats coming to America at age 22 for the first time, and managing her involuntary “alone time” by going to Disney movies or surviving the Autobahn.
Martine (left) and AnnElise at the Tucson Festival of Books
Martine has a different and elucidating take on the then sparse German TV programs, the desperate attempt to make sense of the dubbed over American movies, and the mechanics of the German language, where Spiel-zeug is a play thing and Werk-zeug is a work thing. But be careful of your English such as “fix it.” It could be heard as a four-letter expression in German.
Language Troubles No More
The intricacies of the German language provide Martine a wide playing field of pitfalls, errors, and humor in this delightful book. No wonder she wanted everybody to speak at least correct English. Aside from a mass communications professor, formerly with the Idaho State University, she is also a certified instructor of English as a second language.
Martine is not the only misfit within Army reach. A whole set of misfitted characters gave her material for sometimes tender, sometimes ironic, but always insightful behavioral studies of people blown over to Europe by the US Forces. She introduces a microcosm of assembled players that could make a Robert Altman movie.
Final word, the unique perspective that Martine takes on a number of things that we are familiar with makes her book valuable. She reflects back on the end of the Wall and Ossies pouring across Checkpoint Charlie. She bites, against mother’s advice, the bullet to give hitchhikers a ride and discovers a whole new explorer self. And she also analyzes the underlying ideology of the world famous Oberammergau Passion Plays.
Altogether an enlightening and fabulous read for anyone ever lost in another culture. When in Germany, do as the Germans do. Martine tried her best and lived to tell her stories. You can order “Misfits Abroad” here at Amazon:
We left on election day, having cast our vote by mail, to escape our civic detachment (disillusionment). In Kerala, India, we enjoyed a tour to paradise. We drove from Dharmathupatti to Munnar, from there to Kumily (Periyar National Forest), and on to Mariar Beach, where we stayed in the Abad Turtle Beach resort on the coast.
We didn’t see wild elephants but we took note of this reclaimed plastic artifact in Munnar.
Along the serpentine ways through the Western Ghats we saw lush tea and cardamom plantations; farther down towards the coast, rubber trees, pineapple, mangoes, coconut, and extensive rice fields in the backwater region. We also took one of the famous houseboat trips on the coastal backwater canals.
Kerala is under communist leadership. From driving through the land, catching fleeting impressions with my tourist eyes, I thought that individuals, even the lowliest street hawkers, feel more like a part of society than any of us in the US of A. People in India know their roles, rights, and entitlements. Participation in the community in Kerala appeared to be much stronger than in the US, where half the population doesn’t even vote. We saw a communist rally march, noticed many campaign posters, and spotted numerous calls for recycling and other public service announcements.
A government can certainly make people feel as a part of the whole. Take for example the Periyar National Park and Tiger Reserve. Since its inception in 1982, the Periyar National Park has enrolled its local villagers as guardians of the preserve. That was a smart move, because now the locals have gained not only a source of income as guides and rangers, they have also dropped what one official brochure called “poaching.”
At the Gavi safari headquarters, at least a dozen guides met up with their tourists in small groups; breakfast and lunch provided at the cafeteria. Vijay, our guide who lives in the ecotourism village of Gavi, took us on a small hike from the ranger station to the top of one of the 18 hills in the park. All hikers had to wear gaiters up to the knee to protect us against leeches.
The hike was short but quite scenic. At the peak of the hill, Vijay directed our attention to the Sabarimala temple, nestled in the valley’s jungle. The famous sanctuary can only be reached on foot via a trail and nevertheless the temple attracts 10–15 million pilgrims annually, although it has restrictive opening seasons. A military station has been built next to it to watch over the ever increasing amount of gold in the sanctuary, as well as to monitor the religious fervor. Holy passions have a history of getting out of hand in a land of many faiths. Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity are all running their strong agendas.
At Periyar National Park, you can’t go hiking on your own. First of all, about 800 elephants live in the area. Although we saw plenty manure on the narrow road, we unfortunately didn’t spot an animal as such. Second, the park is home to an estimated 40 tigers and some hundred leopards, who may be looking for an easy meal. Third, there are few trails and, as anywhere in the wild, you could get lost and bitten by one of the 300 species of poisonous snakes. Dead tourists are no good advert. Bottom line: don’t go hiking without a ranger. Last but not least, tribals live in the forest too. And they also want to be left alone.
Vijay rowed us in a boat to the Gavi waterfall, which also provides the water for the ecotourism center. He pointed out various species of birds and spotted an orchid called Dancing Girl. He took us on a walk through the arboretum, where we learned about wild mango, chiku (sapodilla), guava, plantains, and allspice. He lit up the resin from the Boswellia serrata tree (frankincense). He was very knowledgeable and proud to share the natural beauties. His forebears may have been poachers, but Vijay now had become an advocate and protector for his paradise.
And there are lots of animals in it. We saw monkeys of several species, herds of gaur (bison), sambar (deer), mongoose, and birds of all kinds on an afternoon boat trip on Lake Periyar. And Vijay and the other rangers had a proud stake in all of this. They enjoyed protecting and sharing the forest at the same time. Of course, we missed out on the tigers, perhaps good so. And we also didn’t spot an elephant. But their droppings were plenty.
Kerala, like all of India, is densely populated. Nothing goes without collaboration because you depend on it. We eventually arrived at our final destination at Abad resort. Even the beach bum dogs of Marari Beach understand this. The packs of mutts wait patiently every morning for the fisher boats to return. The symbiosis between fishermen, dogs, and restaurant trash has deep roots.
Kerala, a true garden state, seems like an ecological paradise. (Duh, close your eyes when there is dust over the tea plantation. Pesticides are are a common practice.) Yes, there is occasional trash, but less so than in other parts of India. Then there are plastic bottle hunters who pile up sacks mile high on their bicycles. Imagine, the cow poop will be dried and serve as fuel for cooking. There are coconuts of which every part can be put to use, even the coir from the husk to make fibers to stuff mattresses. To find out more, visit the Coconut Museum near Marari Beach. There is no part in a coconut that can’t be used.
In the old days, a whole house could be roofed with palm leaves. There is much reuse and recycle going on based on the scarcity of materials but also new inventions such as paper straws have made their way to market. In our resort, Abad Turtle Beach, three miniature bovines were kept on premises, not for milk but for lawn mowing, their manure serving to fertilize the vegetable garden.
Our Kerala trip gave us one of the best flavors of eco-tourism. When the locals are collaborating to preserve their natural treasures, this kind of business is an enrichment for all involved and does (hopefully) the least harm. Tourism will never take off with “no harm” involved. But in the national parks in Kerala the flow of people is strictly controlled. It has to be. With a population of about 1.5 billion plus some tourists, the pristine lands for wildlife are precious and irreplaceable. We don’t want to trample them down.
GRMC alumni at front entrance (left to right): Dr. Sunil Mathew, Dr. Inder RS Makin, Dr. Praneal Sharma, Dr. Kayemba-Kay’s Simon, Dr. Jaspreet Brar, Dr. Shahin Nooreyezdan, and Dr. Jay Maharaj
Seven distinguished medical professionals returned to their college tracks at the Gwalior Medical College, Madhya Pradesh, India, after 45 years in international career tracks: Reconstructive Surgeon Dr. Shahin Nooreyedzan, New Delhi; Radiologist Dr. Praneal Sharma, Sydney, Australia; Psychiatrist Dr. Jaspreet Brar, Pittsburgh, USA; Hepatologist Dr. Sunil Mathew, Kochi, Kerala; Pediatrician Dr. Kayemba-Kay’s Kabangu Simon (native of Democratic Republic of Congo), from France; Biomedical Engineer Prof. Dr. Inder Raj Singh Makin, Phoenix, Arizona; and Family Physician Dr. Jay C Maharaj from Durban, South Africa.
The international group of doctors, most accompanied by their supportive spouses, retraced their college experience. They visited the various departments at GRMC campus, where college Dean Dr. R.K.S. Dhakar received the alumni in his conference room. The international group also chanced upon a dear colleague from the old days, Dr. Ranjna Tiwari, Professor of Community Health and expert sitar player.
“I had to take this young man under my wings back then, because he didn’t speak a word of Hindi,” Dr. Tiwari said about Dr. Maharaj, from South Africa. The Gwalior professor was bowled over with affection.
A number more surprises were sprung on the seven Gwalior alumni. Jaikishen (a.k.a “Jack”) chai stand was now surrounded by high volume traffic and the trees were missing, but the pakora, samosas, and chai were still delicious. A memorable photograph was recreated at the Talkatora pool location after 45 years, each doctor modeling the former pose of studious interest.
During the course of two days, the medical professionals went down memory lane swapping stories of mischief and accomplishments. The city had changed a lot but eventually each alumnus sleuthed out their former abodes. The seven GRMC exes, who had been planning this joint outing for the last five years, bonded even more strongly over this exciting endeavor.
“I can’t get over the fact that this feels like yesterday. But we are sure glad not to be staying in the dorms any more,” Dr. Nooreyedzan joked. Whew! His colleagues agreed with him wholeheartedly. They all had accomplished their specialties coming from the rigorous training ground of GRMC’s medical degree program.
Its rustic charm was irresistible. The Crofting Inn put forth a Hallmark lumberjack façade. The bed and breakfast in Cloudcroft, New Mexico, offers 7 quaint, old-fashioned rooms. Just what my friend, Bandanaland Princess Edda, had been looking for. She was planning to get away from the Texas heat for a summer outing to this ski resort village with her Prince Helmut.
Hostess Gail at your service
“The price was right for that amount of ambience,” Edda said. “The old house, built in 1919, appealed to me because I like historic locations.”
But they couldn’t decide on the exact days because a mouse had chewed up a wiring cable and this car problem had to be fixed for the road. “It was wonderful that the landlady was so accommodating about our back and forth with the dates,” Edda recalled. What joy, the last-minute deal worked out.
When they arrived, the door was locked. “Just type in the code and go up to your room,” the woman in charge, Gail, instructed them on the phone.
The house was decorated with an abundance of old-fashioned trinkets and antiques. The room offered plain accommodations with a bed and bedside tables, no wardrobe or storage for clothes. No TV or air-conditioning either, but the little balcony let plenty of clean mountain air in. It would have been perfect enough, except the tub looked whacky.
“No problem!” the hostess said. “We will move you into another unit.” Those showers were totally up to date.
“I also chose this Inn because it advertised a gourmet breakfast,” Edda said. She likes fancy fare in the mornings. “After a home-baked blueberry muffin and a bowl of fruit, I asked myself, what’s next.” But nothing came forth. So, the hostess served additional toast and extra hot milk to thin Edda’s coffee. On top of that, she offered advice on outings to the famous train trestle, the beer brewing company, and the elegant Lodge with its resident ghost.
Gail minded every minute request with unaffected hospitality. “She was a little like me,” Edda said. “She liked to cook but it had to go fast.” The conversation in the dining room between the different guests flowed merrily from one to the other, a fact that Prince Helmut really liked.
A couple from Kerrville, Texas, shared their discovery of mega croissants from the best bakery in the 950-souls-strong little western town of Cloudcroft. They talked with an astoundingly sprite 90-year-old woman who celebrated her birthday with a family reunion. And a good-looking couple was planning a flashy wedding.
Why flashy? Another interesting fact surfaced at this point. Innkeeper Gail and her husband, math professor Scott, got married on their lunch break, just like Edda and Helmut did. No flash at all, but the bond lasted.
Crofting Inn had many cozy corners. Coming from Bandanaland, Edda felt right at home with the rustic paisley patterns all around. The whole house was decorated with bandanas: as table cloths, as fireplace décor, and dangling from the ceiling as garlands.
“We get many guests from Texas up here,” Gail explained. “They are very fond of Western themes, in which the bandana plays a pig part.” So, she made her place extra comfy and welcoming for cowboys and cowgirls. This goes to show again that there is creativity in bandanas to no end. The sky hangs full with bandanas at the Cloudcroft Inn.
Thank you, Bandanaland Princess Edda, for the lovely photos and story
Contribute to the Bandana Book III
“Sung and Unsung Heroes” Stories deadline: December 1st
Everybody knows a hero. Could be your parents, neighbor, school mate etc. Send in your hero story, regardless of a Bandana! Heroes don’t necessarily wear bandanas, but they might suit them well.
Australia (yes, this is NOT China) drives on the left, walks on the left, sneezes to the left. How do you avoid being run over? Are Australians bound to be more left-handed too? I figure, they’ve got to be, because the left does most of the work in a car: gears, wipers, climate control, radio. Try that for a change.
Darling Harbor skyline
So, here we arrive in Sydney, in our Holiday Inn, in December 2023. Wherever you look, there are no fat people, least of all the slim and trim Singapore Airlines hostesses. Have they banished the overeaters to Tasmania? Hardly anyone in downtown seems older than 30. Where do they put their seniors? These skinny, fashionable Oriental girls and boys must be all students? I sure feel out of place now.
We tourists are the oldest people around. Some grey-haired troopers in North Face puffer jackets carry sizable backpacks and meander about with walking sticks and hiking boots. Occasionally, you see parents dragging their kids around in a cart. They could be British or German or Dutch. We all hang out at the Public Market. That has everything we need, from lychees to toothbrushes.
The Holiday Inn at Darling Harbor lies amidst China Town. Only Asian people around, Beijing ducks in the shop windows, tasty donut holes (Emperor Puffs) filled with custard, boba shops with many flavors, and the whole range of Oriental cuisine. But what’s with the jostling? Did everybody switch off their inborn proximity sensor?
Asians seem to have expensive seafood taste: a can of three abalone mussels for 100 Dollars! I am not joking. All that dried seafood, some of the most ominous kind, is all very expensive. The abalone—big trays of different mollusks, 1 kg for $675—are harvested in the wild waters of the Tasmanian Sea. Some shell fish divers have even braved shark attacks.
But just go for it! In Australia, you don’t need money. They will take a plastic card for everything. Even the commemorative coin machine at the Sydney Aquarium spews out your minted penny for a tap. The aquarium is an excellent place to go under the sea. It has some of the best shark tanks around
Buses also will let you ride for only a tap: a tap on and a tap off. (No, not a swipe!) If you’re lucky, the tapper doesn’t work and the driver lets you go for free. However, something is amiss with the busses: a signal flashes “bus stopping,” but where-the-heck do we stop? Count on the driver to let you off at the right place because nobody else may speak English.
I always thought I speak English well, but my American accent occasionally collided against the Aussie-speak. It was sure fortunate that our friends taught us lessons about slurpy Tim-Tam cookies, Lamingtons, and the (peculiar) Vegemite spread in the safety of their home. Later I learned some of the local intricacies the hard way.
On the first morning, a ketchup packet exploded on me: I pointed it the wrong way, squeezed, and voila had ketchup all over my snout. Most things don’t seem obvious when you’re under a 14-hour jet lag. Yeah, the blow dryer flicked the frothy soap all over my shirt. Silly me, I hadn’t approached the duplicitous (double-action) faucet from the right angle. Fortunately, Sydney seemed so much cleaner than our American cities. Kudos to the restrooms! And drinks come only with paper straws and there is an extra charge for takeout containers.
I had fun bumbling along the parks and exploring on foot. My mission on Tuesday was to reach the beach. Another faux pas! Bondi is pronounced “Bon-die” or “Bon-day” Beach. Good day? Or a good day to die? Huh? That’s what the Lakota would say. The bus driver wrinkled his brow, then smiled, and taught me the correct pronunciation of my destination.
I finally made it to Bondi. The sandy bay looked just like in the pictures. I encountered fewer tattooed people here than I had expected. But the ones that afforded body art, displayed their whole tribal story from neck to toe. Surfers, right!
It’s fun to watch the surfers at Bondi. Even better than staring into the tide pools at La Jolla. I settled into a coffee shop for a capuccino and avocado sandwich. Australia had me then and there.
At the Sydney Darling Harbor Wildlife Zoo posing with sleepy Koalas
Like the fat Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland I sit perched on the window sill of our 13th floor room at the Hilton in San Diego. Down there, at the dock, a ginormous cargo ship lies anchored. Its name is the Dole Pacific. It’s stacked high with white containers. Piles of “white mice.” And then the process begins. Like a cat watching mice at play, I get entranced with the container logistics 13 stories below me. So many containers! So many bananas? Or were they filled with pineapples?
The big “Dole” boxes all have refrigeration fans and stack up perfectly, on the cargo ship as well as on the loading zone. No “supply chain problem” for bananas, so much busy-body activity below.
The cargo ship at anchor had two cranes for unloading the containers. Close by the dock, there was a mountain of containers piled up. Were they empty? Crammed on the islands between the throughways, spindly trailers were neatly filed up. And across from the monster warehouse with its gaping receiving gullets, the “mice” were perfectly sorted into numbered spots to be carted away.
How does all this work? At eight o’clock sharp, the first harbor rig, a motorized box with a hitch in its back, crawled out of the abyss somewhere below me. Its overnight sleeping location was invisible from my windowsill. What was that tiny looking tadpole up to now? Catch some mice? You bet! That cabin vehicle knew exactly what it was doing. It backed straight into one spindly trailer, hitched it, and scurried with it to the dock. There it sidled up to the monster boat. Slowly but surely, the crane drifted one of the hundreds of containers down on the truck’s trailer. And, happily, the truck carted the white mouse off. This process repeated itself a number of times, until half a dozen rigs scurried back and forth between the cargo ship and the distribution area.
They lined up so many mice! I smacked my lips in awe. That was no small feat, because these monster mice barely fit into their spaces. After a while, no more slots were available for the mice to be parked. But, voila, from outside, the cross-country rigs lined up by the pearly gates of Dole harbor business. One by one, ever so slowly, they pulled off one after the other mouse to the open prairie. And they knew exactly, which mouse they were getting. How did they do that? Meanwhile, the harbor rigs filled up the vacant spots with more mice. It was a mystery to me.
After three days, all the containers were offloaded from the Dole Pacific and she sailed off to Ecuador and other places to bring more bananas in. What was in the boxes now? Air mostly, I read, and 5 percent freight.
I was getting hungry for bananas. A cat? Why not.
The terminal at the Port of San Diego can hold about 800 containers. All of them are refrigerated boxes known as “reefers”: Each 40-foot reefer can hold 1000 boxes, and each box holds around 100 bananas. Dole discharges around 2 billion individual bananas and 16 million pineapples in San Diego alone. Read more at:
We did it again. We do Kaltenberg on every German trip. Look, here is the Grand Entry. The Kaltenberg Medieval Jousting Show and Marketplace is hosted at Kaltenberg Castle, the residence of the Duke of Bavaria.
A story about food poisoning seems tacky. I kept this draft on file for two years. After much indigestion with our elections, this seems to be the perfect timing.
What a dreadful topic! Did you ever have food poisoning? Probably, yes. My physique makes me prone to attract biohazards. But I will spare you most of the messy details except for these.
My first food poisoning that I can remember happened on a Monday, layout day at the weekly paper print shop. I was in my twenties. Unfortunately, the lunch salad at the Italian bistro must have been laced with pathogens. I had to use the train to get to the print shop across town, somehow made it just in time. I thought I would explode at ten-minute intervals for the next two hours. But somehow I got the paper done, and the toilet (t)issues too.
All my trips to India have been memorable and enriched with cultural experiences. But the first trip put me into the emergency room. Fortunately, disaster hit towards the end of the journey. And fortunately I kept the stuff inside on the flight by using utmost restraint, although with a barf bag in hand. I ended up fighting this remarkable bout of food poisoning on American soil with an IV for rehydration two days later. It also passed. I never knew what organism had hit me. My family made a diagnosis: Delhi belly.
I had two memorable encounters with some tough bugs at American eateries. One happened at a popular Mexican theme restaurant. Maybe the critter hid in the chalupa? The other disaster struck at a soup and sandwich shop. Was something in the tomato soup or was I contaminated by bathroom use? The spotty potty should have been a warning.
Either way, both these incidences, sent me to urgent care after the second day. And so did the bottom layer of a prewashed salad box. OK, here is something that I learned. Wash it, wash it, wash it, even when it says, “ready to serve”. One time I went to a vegetarian party given by a newly minted vegan. Doubtlessly, the veggies were scrupulously clean. However, the mix of cooked beans, fresh sprouts, and cabbagy things set off some gas works of a monumental nature. Cramps, cramps, cramps—I was afraid of involuntary releases. And yet I kept my smiley face and conversation. The longest party in my memory.
Interestingly, I cannot recall any bouts with the infamous Montezuma’s revenge, even though I have traveled to Mexico frequently. The Mexican bugs have so far agreed with me.
My longest lasting food poisoning, contracted in Mumbai in 2004, must have dragged out for about a year. Initially, the affliction started with severe stomach and intestinal eruptions. I was lucky since my place of stay had a functioning Western toilet.
To this day, I vividly imagine that slightly tattered papaya that I bought from the grimy sidewalk. Ask natives, they will easily admit that Mumbai streets are filthy, especially during the monsoon, when sewers spill into the street and mingle with the drinking water. Let’s say, it was the papaya and that I didn’t wash it well enough.
Or had the microbe jumped from my toddler’s mustardy diapers? After the acute infections had subsided, the problem lingered on. I lost weight, felt weak and listless. It was a parasite called giardia, which hopped around the family for about a year. That brought on excessive trips to the doctor, disgusting medication (metronidazole), and regular testing—until all family members took the medication simultaneously.
My husband survived the food poisoning. No such luck for me.
All done with that, here comes the best. I would call it the Jaipur double-trouble. Yeah, I can still precisely picture the”last supper” from a reputable-looking restaurant. My husband and I, we both enjoyed it. Exactly after two hours—I had ingested a fast-acting little critter—my fever-vomit tango started. My Indian husband seemed to be taking the food bug (lingering resistance) just fine until four more hours later.
Let’s chill, I pleaded. What? he said, waste the whole sightseeing trip in a four-star hotel? No way, Jose! That’s the kind of people we are. So up goes my six-month-old in an L.L. Bean carrier, and we take the town of Jaipur. Wait, let me puke a little before I take the picture of the Red Fort. Tonight we’ll puke in tandem. And tomorrow we’ll try not to fall through the hole between the two footprints of the bumpy train while doing the other business.
Yeah, what a trip that was! And why am I telling you all this? When I have traveled to distant places, adventures have made my trips memorable. Food poisoning has sharpened my perception so much that some images are indelibly burnished on my mind. Food poisoning has made me more aware—and Jaipur quite unforgettable.
However, don’t be foolish and get a food poisoning on purpose just for the sight-seeing experience. I have been there. It’s not so enjoyable. I did not carelessly challenge my fate, but stuff happens, you know.
Tasting local foods is still what makes foreign travels ultimately exciting. Be judicious about eating, but savor your delicacies without regret after you accept the risk of natural reactions.
How to Avoid Food Poisoning
Wash hands conscientiously
Use bottled water for brushing your teeth
Wash all fruits and vegetables thoroughly with clean water
On the road, eat only fruits that can be peeled (orange, banana etc)
Look for freshly deep fried foods
Packaged cookies, crackers, snacks are OK
Bakery items are a good selection
Canned foods are a safe option
Avoid salads, leafy greens, or cut fruits
Avoid stews with meat or fish in gravy
Avoid meats in general, because proper refrigeration may be lacking
“If nothing else, there is always a Jim Horton’s in Canada,” a friend of mine joked. True, we saw one on every corner. But there was so much else. And my expectations of bakeries and sceneries were not disappointed. Our Canada trip was a worthwhile journey of nature immersion and city scouting. The landscape was gorgeous.
Canada is the country of lakes and forests. Hills and dales glowed with undulating wheat fields and pick-it-yourself strawberry farms. The farm scenery reminded me much of Germany. Trees, trees everywhere. Compared to our subdued desert vegetation, they were huge. Between Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal, we cruised along countless waterways and swampy gulches, and very scenic lakes. Everybody seemed to be fishing in Canada. Our family reunion on Rice Lake at Serenity Estate (a gorgeous cottage on the lake with canoes, paddle boats, and a pier) turned out marvelous. We had ourselves an Indian-German-Canadian party; almost all the cousins and half the uncles had gathered.
The “cottage” (6 bedrooms) had a game room with billiards table, a full-size bar, and a poker table. By the boat landing was a fireplace all prepared. At sunset—what an amazing glow—squadrons of black flies would attack. Close the screen door, quick! On the road again, the four of us stopped over at the Hastings House Bed & Breakfast. What a gem of a cottage! We felt like living in a cute jewelry box that left no detail to accident. Housekeeper Elise cooked a luxurious breakfast with ham, egg, and homemade jellies for us. We should have stayed another night.
Next day we reached Ottawa from the Nepean side on the eve of the NAFTA summit. Our sightseeing was busted for the next two days because President Obama was to meet the other two “amigos” (pres Trudeau and pres Peña from Mexico).
So we did a walking tour along the Rideau Canal, the locks, the Parliament area, and ended up at the Byward market. We luckily got in a visit with the “We are persons” (women’s rights) sculpture set. The museums in the heart of town were barricaded against tourists because of the impending state visit. But the Moulin de Provence Bakery made up twice for the disappointment. Their cream tarts and chocolate mousse domes were exquisite. The patisserie had a showcase with Obama cookies—maple leaf gingerbread—but his picture wasn’t on them. So we didn’t buy any. Oh, well.
We whiled away the next day with the cows and ground hogs at the Experimental Farm in Ottawa, and finally, after departure of the foreign dignitaries, we saw the amazing National Gallery of Art. Of course we didn’t get done with it. The Canadian naturalist paintings of the Group of Seven reminded me of Georgia O’Keeffe; the Inuit exhibit was awe-inspiring. So much creativity from almost nothing! But it was time to head over to Montreal.
Our dear friend Evelyn gave us a blitz tour of Mount Royal, old town, the harbor, and the museum district. The food at the Andelfinger home was outstanding; crepes with blueberries for breakfast, naturally grown beef for dinner. And the croissants! We had the greatest time at the Montreal Jazz Festival, fireworks included. Next day, we browsed through the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts on the Golden Square Mile. We passed up the Ritz Carlton because we already had the best lodging in town.
Back in Toronto we tried the Fringe Festival of independent theater productions, some experimental. Blind to Happiness was according to the reviews an audience favorite; we liked the one-man, three-character act with an imaginary cat and other pendants. Number two was a set of two burlesque, one weird mime act set in WWI and a Commedia dell’ Arte–style piece, produced by a whacko clown troupe; it was a raunchy, bawdy performance, to say the least, but still quite comical. We left the theater and didn’t know what had hit us. Oh, well. Never stop learning.
We finished off our Canadian tour with a trip to the Central Island in Lake Ontario via Tiki Water Taxi from Toronto.
Why are there never any big headlines about Canada? We observed an amazingly colorful mix of people. Canada is huge, but 20 percent of its population huddles along the great lakes, with Toronto the largest city. We came to the conclusion it’s a good thing that Canada is staying out of the headlines and therefore out of controversy and mass shootings. They have a really dashing prime minister, Trudeau, whose father also held that top office. He makes for such a handsome picture. That’s why they put him on the cookies too.
What is art? It is definitely a skill. And? Art is also the way we look at things. How we perceive an object or image is in the eye of the beholder. Sometimes, however, art is in the blind spot. We overlook it. Guess now what the above image is. (Curious? Read through to the bottom.)
Let’s try this art thing again. Sometimes you just have to close one eye and look with the other. Squint real hard until the horizon blurs with the sky. Stand on your head. That’s a visual perspective too. If you do it right, you can pick up the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty between your thumb and index finger. Or sometimes you just need to close your eyes to get the full picture. If you stare at something too long, it might fade away, like the famous blind spot. Or you might hypnotize yourself. Life is pretty much an optical illusion. Our brain likes to play games with us. (The photo above was concocted by my daughter Susmita.)
Perception: is the glass half full or half empty? Yes, we all can self-therapize ourselves into happiness. This art form called mindfulness is also a skill. Like everything, it takes practice. Look at the optical illusion on the left. All the squares inside the stripes are middle gray. Would you believe that?
At the Fringe Festival in Toronto we saw a well-done play called “Blind to Happiness”. The one-man act reflected three characters. The least fortunate one, a dish washer in a tavern, learned to deal with his strict boss, skittish girl friend, dominant mother, and a spoiled cat. Was he happy? Maybe. It’s all relative.
And so is art. I have learned to take fairly good photos. Yet they may only look spectacular to me. You have Instagram? Styles and flavors in photography and visual arts are endless. Photos are so cheap and easy these days, iPhone does them all. Why did I ever bother with Dektol? Digital manipulations are the thing. The last little shred of truth goes down the drain, right?
Everybody has their own taste in colors. But how can I be sure that the other person’s teal or mauve or aquamarine registers in their brain at the same value as mine? Perhaps this is less a question of the brain than of the heart. And that is even more inexplicable. Can you distinguish the shapes in the graphic? Congratulations, you are not color blind.
With conscious perception and mindfulness, we can bring art and happiness into view.
SO WHAT’S THE PHOTO ABOVE? It’s a water feature at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa. I took several photos from underneath a square wishing fountain with a glass bottom. Then I made a gif out of four frames.
It seems strange, but Arizona is a winter paradise. Not only for snowbirds from Wisconsin and North Dakota who flock here to the Valley of the Sun, but also for people who really like snow. We have it good in Phoenix. When El Niño’s clouds move in, we get a heavy rain in the valley. But up in the mountains, Payson, Prescott, Flagstaff, and so forth, it’s another story. They get the flaky stuff.
So we go to see the snow. It’s a real attraction for us. We grab our hiking boots and bundle up. Yes, we use those gloves and hats once a year. And off we drive. We can see the white beauty from afar on Four Peaks Mountain. Let’s go!
Smoky the Bear advises us in Payson that fire danger is low today. No wonder, the snow pile reaches well above his waist. We drive up to the trout farm on the Rim by Horton Creek. Barely a one-lane track is ploughed. What if we get head on traffic! We don’t want to get stuck in the berm. No snow tires, chains or shovels anywhere. Who knows if our T-Mobile will get a call out of here.
But we are driving through a winter wonderland of pristine snow. The pine trees are loaded, bending under the heavy white weight. Is this Narnia? We expect snow creatures, but they are only happy sledders parked by the road.
We get out at the parking for the trailhead. The trout farm is closed, but there is a little trail into the snow-covered forest. We tread gently into the quiet scenery. Sculptured trees of sugar loads decorate the path besides us. Paff, that snowball hit right on my chest. Wait a minute, take this!
We like to see and touch the snow, and then be out of it. We basically know all the coffee shops in Flagstaff, our favorite one Macy’s with its coffee roaster and inspiring photographs. Yeah, we could trying skiing sometime on Mount Humphreys, but we are too lazy. Instead we enjoy the vista across the winter wonderland from up there.
This is Arizona winter wonderland. You may see Prickly Pear cacti covered with snow. They sure look funny that way. Or a white cap on a saguaro, a Santa-guaro. When it snows, we run to catch a whiff of it. And we get out of it just as quick. What a good deal.
Look at our beautiful Arizona snow mountains: Four Peaks, Bell Rock, Mt. Humphreys
This St. George is depicted in a very, very old house at the living history museum Glentleitn near Kochel am See.
I never knew that my friend Schorschi (Georg) Unterholzner was so much into saints. He usually writes Bavarian murder mysteries. In his latest publication, a pretty coffee table book “Faszinierendes Tölzer Land”, he came up with a story about a local St. George in the Bad Tölz Region. It may be a wayward myth that St. George was made into a dragon slayer, he argued. Because the name itself comes from the Greek organon, which means worker of the land. However, even land workers have turned their plough shares into swords. I believe that St. George became a warrior, because he had to defend his values. So let me have the joy to introduce to you St. George the Dragon Slayer. This fearless down-to-earth man is a saint for everyone, from Ireland to Asia Minor. Much more accessible than lofty St. Mike and hardly as nationalistic as Siegfried. Here is what I could gather about this soldierly landman and the dragons he might soon fight. Last time I checked on the dragons (above a London creature) they were still alive and well. When you travel England or Bavaria, you may spot some dragon tails. I have grown up with a dragon under one roof in my childhood home in Bavaria. It stuck its fierce head out from under the gables. This early image inspired me to write my adventure novel “Der Keltenschimmel” (The Celtic Stallion). I learned that the dragonhead was a charm against a fire catastrophe. A fire-spitter as protector. Makes all the sense in the world? Anyhow, dragons, St. George, and Celtic myths inspired my young protagonist, the hot-headed apprentice writer Katrina.
In Bavaria, dragons are lurking around every corner. The soldier’s memorial in my village is protected by St. George the Dragon Slayer and Patron of Soldiers. St. George is also the celebrity of the little village chapel (Schimmelkapelle), which is said to be built on a Celtic sacrificial site. Of course that chapel inspired all the imagination for my Keltenschimmel. It used to contain many dozens of pious votive paintings for a cure from illness or safe return from war. St. George (altar) is riding a white horse (Schimmel). Aside from the holy tangents, a ghost horse has been seen cantering around the little church and a witch livesnearby. DRAGON SLIDE SHOW
Let’s go to Munich’s Marienplatz with its neo-gothic city hall and Glockenspiel. St. Mary rules the heart of town there from her mighty column. Four little angel mercenaries at her feet fight off fierce mythological creatures. But one nifty reptile escaped the heavenly authorities. This sinister reptile is now crawling up the west corner of the Rathaus. It has always fascinated me.
Dragons rule London too! It seemed that St. George forgot to kill a few. In front of Westminster Cathedral, St. George dominates the scene, as he is also a part of the royal coat of arms at nearby Buckingham palace. But in other places dragons proudly fly about town. A dragon aggressively standing on its hind legs guards the bridge to the free City of London. Another flying reptile roams the air space around St. Paul’s.
The similarities between the British and Bavarian gothic do not end here. At the Liberty, I saw a Glockenspiel with St. George chasing after the dragon. No dragon at the Rathaus Glockenspiel in Munich, but a medieval court scene and joust. The dance of the coopers’ guild symbolizes the perseverance during times of the plague.
I have grown up with dragons nearby, such as the one under the roof of our 200-year-old Bavarian farmhouse. I was surprised that dragons were this popular in England too. The Queen’s Knights of the Garter and the Bavarian Knights of St. George share an important saint. And their dragons too.
Westminster Cathedral and St. George Column in memory of fallen soldiers
This is the last of my “one picture a day” series. I caught a fleeting image on the run. How telling it is: “Next is now. Choose happiness.”
When visiting New York, London, or Munich, you will take the tube at some point. This transportation mode is usually fast, frequent, and “facile”—unless you have a physical mobility impairment. Interchanges may require quite a bit of walking. Now, here is the scoop: in New York you swipe the metro card, in London you touch in and out with the “oyster”, and in Munich you fold and stamp a “Streifenkarte”. My opinion after the trip? The London Underground is the best. In Harry Potter-like manner you float upwards on endless escalators next to animated picture frames advertising the newest perfumes or plays. Although much crowded at times, especially at the three-level Waterloo station, the London Underground magically works. Friendly or not, there is always staff nearby who you can ask. In Munich you will be all on your own with mystifying U-Bahn zones and ticket deals. Not a conductor in sight, unless he wants to catch you with a mistake.
Day Eight: City of Dragons
London is the city of lions, dragons, and unicorns. At White Hall I saw a pair of chimeric creatures with a unicorn front half and a dragon’s tail guarding the gate. You can spot the dragon slayer, St. George, throughout the city in conspicuous locations: atop an impressive column in front of Westminster Abbey, embedded in the Royal coat of arms at Buckingham Palace, and in a “Glockenspiel” at the Liberty Inn near Carnaby Street. “Puff” Invictus, however, sans St. George, guards the ancient City of London atop London Bridge that hasn’t fallen down (so far).
When you go to London next time, watch out for fairy tale creatures. Gremlins, gargoyles, and phantoms are lurking behind every corner.
Day Seven: More Royal Sights
NOTE: On left, near muzzle, the pigeon fleeing the cannon (Tower of London).
The “Amazing Race” used to be my favorite reality show. Remember the “make it or break it” travel destination competitions? Visiting London in the summer feels just like it: hustle and bustle like you wouldn’t believe. Three last words about the 1-day London Pass: do your research and practice your fast-track itinerary beforehand; take the underground, not the sight-seeing buses to and fro; and compare the “family packages” (47 pounds at Windsor for a family of 5) against the London Pass. Anyhow, we performed quite well as tourists. We visited Windsor Castle, the Tower and Crown Jewels, Churchill’s War Room, the National Gallery, the Tate Gallery, and Westminster Abbey. We walked the Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, Leicester Square, and Piccadilly Circus. Next Time? Definitely Stonehenge. There seem to be enough convenient day trips from central London.
Day Six: The Scoop about the 1-Day London Pass
The London Pass (ca. 50 Brit. pounds, all major attractions) is a good deal when you are smart about it. Do your map research and select costly, central-London highlights. By all means do the Tower of London, Churchill’s War Room, one of the Royal Palaces etc. Did you know that you can see Westminster Abbey for free at 5 p.m. Evening Song? DON’T try to cover Windsor Castle with the 1-day pass. You might run out of time while puttering along with the slow commuter train. Otherwise, the London Underground is clean and excellent. The London tube seems quieter than a church, whereas the New York subway might spring on you a preacher from hell. London is a great place to explore. I have been looking for dragons in every corner. Unexpectedly, we spotted some Royalty on Waterloo Day (June 18) in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
QUIZ ABOUT THE PICTURE: Both paintings are by El Greco from the National Gallery. During his time (1541-1614), he had truly “personal” style. There is a 20-year age difference between the paintings. Which is the older one?
Day Five: Not in Manhattan any more
One Picture a day continues in London: Flying was easy, arrival swell. Our Indian-descent taxi driver to Wimbledon showed us the lush commons with impressive oak trees and frolicking, tough-bred brewery horses. Cottages, taverns, quaint medieval churches—we had landed in a storybook scenery. And you know what? No problem with figuring out the Underground at all. The railway official behind the counter gave us a whole run-down of options and a fist-full of brochures. And the conductor demonstrated how to swipe the magic cards. The Underground was clean and swift and orderly.
We almost didn’t make it to JFK. Whatever pick up time your taxi company gives you, add at least 2 hours to be safe. Getting out of Manhattan can seem hopeless, when you are caught in a jam. No wonder that New Yorkers walk with so much determination. We were lucky not to know any of these constrictions as we were still strolling on Fifth Avenue. We took a ride up the Empire State Building and had the observation deck almost to ourselves because it was raining. The ushers and security staff seemed like the same ones I had seen decades ago on my first trip. The Empire State is a very traditional site and a masterpiece of human construction. Yet times were simpler then. The bid for construction cost fit simply on one page. My picture today is called SMILOPHILE. I don’t know what the rest of it says, since the skyscrapers were jumbled together so densely. Never mind, this image helped me see the light as I was fretting about catching an international flight. We are in London now.
Day Three
Now let’s back up a bit from what I said yesterday about the New Yorkers. I had given up asking them direction. But, voilá, as confused as we looked over the subway map (going in the wrong direction again?), some locals took pity on us and volunteered strategic information. Another thing I learned: New Yorkers walk with steadfast destiny through the daily masses. You can’t just flag them down. You need to catch someone’s eye. Try looking. Pin a glance on someone and then smile. Finally, we even engaged in playful banter with a hot dog vendor. We had a great time: Liberty Statue, Museum of Natural History, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Top of the Rock, Intrepid Naval Air & Space Museum, Greenwich Village, MoMa, 911 Memorial, the Subway, Time Square, neighborhood delis, French bakeries, and many other places.
Day Two
You must be Intrepid when asking New Yorkers the way. Some will blankly stare through you as if they hadn’t noticed you are talking to them. Some will determinedly rush by you with a stone face, never mind you’re waving at them. Others will detour in a wide bow around you with fear you might want to hit them up for money. Some may pretend not to speak English or Spanish or German or Hindi. The nicest ones will say, “I don’t know,” shrug their shoulders or shake their head and scurry on. We asked, “Is this sub going uptown?” Yes, yes! That man sent us in the wrong direction altogether. One friendly New Yorker, however, saved our day. He walked us through the maze of Central Park to come out on Fifth Avenue next to his favorite knish place.
Day 1
This picture captured the world’s attention
Pictures, pictures everywhere. We take so many to never see them again. Having a selfie-stick helps to get more. You don’t need to ask a stranger to help you with the group pictures. Not us, we like hitting on fellow travelers.
I will give you one picture a day of our whereabouts. Unfortunately, none of our gazillion digital pictures are bound to be famous. Here is one image by Alfred Stieglitz that became a legend, “The Steerage,” from 1907. Compare that with the Liberty Island tourists above, voyagers have it quite a bit better today. Happy trails to all of you and them.
German romanticist writers had grand words when describing the multitude of colors and sentiments during autumn season. They might have gone for a leisure stroll in the forested hills behind their house and discovered “Cathedrals of Light” up in the autumn leaves. Indeed, when you look up from way below, as small as you are, into the multi-colored canopy above, you might think you are glancing into a kaleidoscope of stained glass bits.
Bunt sind schon die Wälder, gelb die Stoppelfelder und der Herbst beginnt. Rote Blätter fallen, graue Nebel wallen, kühler weht der Wind.
Colored are the forests, yellow are the stubble fields, and the fall begins. Red leaves are falling, gray fogs are wafting, cooler blows the wind.
Johann Gaudenz von Salis-Seewis
I picked the right time to experience the painted forest this year. October in Germany was one of the mildest and prettiest ever recorded. Indian summer is called “old wife’s summer” in Germany, and it really stretched far into what could be the muddy-moody that I am so familiar with. The muddy-moody can be alleviated with reading, sipping herb tea and eating the famous Lebkuchen.
Luckily, I had no muddy-moody experience. To the contrary, the skies were brilliant most of the days. I sat in a café in the remote Jachenau mountain village, drinking excellent coffee and enjoying homemade rhubarb cake with streusel. People—quite a few bikers—were basking in the sun around the Walchensee. The warming rays of the sun felt curative.
No matter where I walked, up the back slope of the Blomberg from the Waldherrn Alm, around the rural neighborhood around the Loisach or a brisk round trip through the hills, meadows, and forests of my home village, I saw decorative foliage everywhere. Many times the “Föhn” cleared the air in front of the impressive formation of the Alps so that the Zugspitze seemed to have moved closer to my village. Idyllic. The cows were still out this late in the year, and the grass was greener than ever. The regular clanking from the bells on the grazing animals lent this picture an almost Buddhist serenity. Would I soon encounter prayer flags in the trees at the top?
Of course not. Yet this part of Bavaria is full of roadside shrines or crosses for the victims of the road. Somehow many paths led me to interesting cemeteries. All gravesites were beautifully decorated, like little flower gardens. And some of the resting places had fabulous views of the mountain ranges in the distance. The vistas were nature’s creation for the relatives to enjoy in front of the departed. A comforting concept.
The splendor of colors was remarkable. I had not experienced the fall season in Germany for a long time. Many years of absence had made the leaves appear more colorful, the air more clear and the harvest moon more intense. One night I saw the blood moon, quite orange, dominating the evening sky, reminding me of the painter Caspar David Friedrich. Another night, the Milky Way sparkled as crisp as a polished Mercedes star down on me. What a “Herbst-Traum” this Germany can be.
“Kirta-Rutsche” in Hofberger’s carpentry workshop
A favorite tradition in Bavaria is the “Kirta-Rutsche.” This traditional swing, a suspended heavy board in the barn, is a hoot with the youngsters. For the Kirchweih (Patron’s Day), a special type of fry noodles are baked. During this harvest celebration, the mood is very happy.
On a whole different note, I was surprisingly “arrested” by TV actor policemen from a popular Krimi series, Hubert (Christian Tramitz) und Staller (Helmfried Von Lüttichau). Quite a unique experience.
Ich hätte es mir gleich denken können: der Sommer kommt ja wieder. Zu spät für die Flucht nach drüben. Obwohl—bei uns in Arizona geht der Sommer eigentlich nie ganz weg, auch nicht im Winter. Deswegen kommen dann die Snow Birds aus Iowa, Minnesota und Nebraska. Aber leider ist ihr alter Schnee dann unterwegs schon geschmolzen. Von Rodeln keine Spur, denn in Arizona brodelt der Asphalt.
Jetzt im Juli ist es grad so schön warm, dass du dir auf der Kühlerhaube (welch eine Fehlbenennung) ein Spiegelei braten könntest. Hundert Grad (37 C) sind da nichts, das haben wir mehr als fünf Monate lang. „It’s a dry heat“, eine trockene Hitze, scherzen wir Arizonier dann mit unseren Touristen. Obwohl, wenn das Thermometer auf knusprige 115 (46 C) klettert, dann sind wir gespannt, ob es keinen Knacks kriegt.
Mir bleibt die Luft weg, wenn ich aus dem gekühlten Haus in die kochende Garage geh. Die Spucke ist mir schon längst vertrocknet. Wenigstens habe ich Ofenhandschuhe für die Autotürgriffe dabei, weil die auch schon glühen. So, erst lass ich mal 10 Minuten den Motor und die Kühlung laufen, damit ich das Steuer anfassen kann. Es ist kein Scherz, schon viele Babys und Haustiere sind in solchen Folteröfen gestorben. Und nur Vollidioten bestellen sich in Arizona eine schwarze Innenausstattung fürs Auto. So meschugge bin ich noch nicht. Bloß nichts drin liegen lassen, was schmelzen oder explodieren könnte.
Aber was kannst’ machen? Bei so einem Sauwetter jagt man keinen Hund mehr auf die Straße. Hab ich Fieber? Da lebt man wie im Dämmerzustand und Unfähigkeit zu irgendwas so vor sich hin, wie unter eine Glasglocke. Klimakühlung im Haus, im Auto, im Mall, von der Natur keine Spur, lieber nicht, die ist grausam heiß.
Sculpture by Heloise Crista at Taliesin West
Mein Garten ist schon arg vertrocknet trotz Sprinkleranlage. Die Tomaten sind Dörrobst. Sogar den Kakteen wird es zu heiß. Erst als ich die Schattensegel über den Kaktusfeldern im Botanischen Garten wahrnehme, verstehe ich, warum meine Aloepflanze so traurig aussieht. Da brennt es direkt runter auf den Steingarten, gegrillte Aloe also.
Sogar zum Baden ist es zu warm. Im öffentlichen Pool schwimmt man herum wie ein Wienerwürstel in der Erbsensuppe—und das Wasser sieht auch so aus. Nein, danke. Auf dem Salt River kann man sich in einem Autoreifen treiben lassen, nicht schlecht. Aber am besten mit T-Shirt und Trainingshose bedeckt, sonst gibt’s rote Garnelen zum Abendbrot. Solardach haben wir zwar, aber die Zellen kommen mit dem Strom für die Kühlung nicht mehr nach. Kann man nur hoffen, dass das bisschen extra Schatten unter den Platten die Sonne etwas bremst. Auch dem „Sonnendach“ wird die Hitze zu viel.
Barracks at Goldfield Town
Kurz gesagt, Arizona ist ein Winterparadies. Im Sommer gibt es genau drei verschiedene Temperaturen: „hot“, „hotter“, und „bloody hot.“ Arizona ist der einzige Staat, der keine Sommerzeit hat. Wieso? Weil wir ignorieren den Sommer ganz einfach. Deswegen kriegt er auch keine besondere Zeit. Ganz im Gegenteil sind wir froh, wenn die Sonne abends schnellstens wieder abhaut. Wir haben angeblich auch einen „Monsoon“, aber alles was dabei herauskommt sind Blitze und Staubstürme. Trotzdem hat Arizona ganz herrliche Regenbögen—einmalig auf der Welt, weil ganz ohne Regen. Ich glaube wir machen die mit Panavision, oder so ähnlich wie ein Feuerwerk.
Na gut, am Wetter kann ich nichts ändern—aber meine Einstellung schon. Jetzt habe ich folgendes probiert: ich habe mein chinesisches Schneesturmposter anmeditiert und mir vorgestellt, es ist Winter. Und es hat funktioniert. Es war wie Weihnachten. So habe ich nichtsdestotrotz gleich Schmalznudeln und Plätzchen gebacken. Ignorieren ist das Beste, was man tun kann, wenn an der Lage nichts zu ändern ist. Aber manchmal wird’s mir trotzdem ganz “Chihuly.”
NOTE: No disrespect intended towards cultures ancient or new, but rock art makes my imagination fly.
When you hike out here in the scenic Sonoran Desert and farther beyond towards New Mexico, you may stumble upon traces of ancient art. On slabs of rock, protected overhangs, or inhabitable caves, humans of times long gone have immortalized themselves on petroglyphs: ancient “graffiti” of the Southwest?
When I come across such rock art, I can’t help but wonder. What were the people of old thinking? Anasazi, Hohokam, and their descendants have depicted wildlife such as stags, turtles, snakes, and birds in prominent places. Mixed in are symbols, concentric circles or spirals, arrows, jagged lines like lightning, and interesting geometric patterns. Of course the human figure always plays an important role too. We can guess from the figure’s attributes what their rank and role may have been. Only guess we can.
I have always been fascinated by petroglyphs. When I look at these sketchy and attractive ideas on the rock in front of me, my mind goes on a time travel. When I look at them long enough, I feel a presence. Or more present about myself?
Many anthropologists have studied petroglyphs for their significance. Life-style, rituals, worries, and worship might be deduced from such stick-figure-like images. It must have been quite cumbersome to chip the images out of the granite; limestone seemed an easier medium for carving. No matter what rock, I conclude that the ancient artists were persistent and their pictures were important to them. It also seems that I can sense the ambition for skilled expression to make the image just “right.”
That makes me wonder even more. Did the ancient ones have “professional” petroglyph makers, specialist who made art for money? Was “petroglyphing” a rogue craft or an underground culture? Were some images chiseled for magic purposes to ward off evil spirits, make the crops grow, or smash the enemy? Was this a calendar documentary to leave a legacy, the history of the tribe? Maybe. How can we know? And then a crazy thought strikes again: What if the ancient ones were just having fun? (Or the elders might sent the troubled individuals for some rock art therapy. Or told the kids, now go get busy, chip some rocks, and draw me a picture.)
Some very strong images have conquered merchandising and government. The Kokopelli flutist, a fertility and growth symbol, has become a mainstream icon. The sun symbol is gracefully adorning the heart of the New Mexico flag. So there must have been some lasting value to these plain engravings. Petroglyph art feels alive and buzzing today. Many hikers such as I go out looking for them to get lucky once in a while.
Our closest petroglyphs are just 30 minutes away in Gold Canyon at the end of the Hieroglyphic Canyon Trail (1 hour hike). Where the trail peters out, we stop in the canyon by the gulch for a rest. It’s such a scenic place, with a view all the way to Phoenix. On the sunny side of the canyon, we marvel at a tapestry of petroglyphs all the way up the rock wall. How did they get so high up there? This idyllic place, the end of the road (?) or a dating cove (?), must have been enjoyed by native people hundreds of years ago just as much.
Another time we toured the Palatki Heritage Site nearby Sedona. This protected cove nestled into an overhang of the Mogollon Rim (mud-brick cliff dwellings nearby) shows many-layered styles of petroglyphs, some perhaps 2000 years old, others superimposed by modern vandals. Defacing ancient art is obviously a despicable act; however, you might see it also as a “response” and “dialog” with artists across ages. Think ahead 1000 years; today’s senseless scribbles might become of interest to future researches. (Right now, they are deplorable.) At Palatki you can see “black” petroglyphs located above a popular fire place. The smoke of ages has adhered to the pictographs, since the rock surface was eagerly absorbing the sooth on the roughened up surface.
Bandelier Monument in New Mexico near Los Alamos is a fascinating site of ancient pueblo/cliff dwellings and petroglyphs. The site was already abandoned when Spanish/European settlement arrived. What you can witness there are the remainders of an elaborate architecture and society including plenty of pictographs. A ranger pointed out the drawing of a macaw high in the cliffs. It is assumed that these birds were traded live from Central America. As we modern people try to piece together ancient cultures, we repeatedly discover that these societies were far from “primitive.” So, go see some rock art real soon. It will make you wonder, I hope.
Can you guess the snap? I came across this picture amidst long forgotten snapshots. What the heck was I thinking or seeing? I strained my brain but without success. Later I scrolled down farther in my picture index and found the explanation.
What’s on the picture above? Guess the snap!
The best guess (or the first correct answer) wins this absolutely fantastic, romantic, original Indian miniature painting. I brought it from one of my journeys to Jaipur. The image is 3 x 5.25 inches and matted in an 8 x 10 white archival mat. Such a lovely romantic scene deserves your best guess.
Miniature paintings are a very old traditional art, originating during the Mughal period in the 17th century. Miniature paintings were used as book illustrations. Antique miniatures can be very valuable. This art is kept alive by very skilled art guilds. Often the paintings are rendered on antique book pages surrounded with Farsi script. Although small, the paintings contain an incredible amount of detail, symbolism, and cultural expression. They always draw me in because I am excited about little treasures.
This charming miniature painting with the prince and the maiden can be yours. Please send me your answer in the comment box below or by e-mail until by Monday 12 noon (May 19).
Das Reutberger Dunkel findet man an den ungewöhnlichsten Orten
Der Berg ruft, heißt es unter den Alpinisten. Aber das Matterhorn juckt mich nicht. Auch nicht der „heilige Berg“ von Andechs. Mein heiliger Berg steht nämlich ganz woanders. Und da gibt es noch ein himmlischeres Gesöff.
Wenn man noch nie in Arizona war, kann man sich gar nicht vorstellen, wie heiß und staubig hier alles ist! Natürlich sind wir im Sommer oft in Bayern und genießen da die herzhaften Leckereien.
In Amerika ist der Kaffee schon vieles besser geworden, seitdem es Starbucks gibt. Beim Brot muss man viel Glück haben. Leider hat mein Lieblingsbäcker, der Breadsmith, zugemacht, aber zur Heidelberg Bakery in Phoenix sind es ja nur 50 Kilometer. Und beim Käse—Importe sind meist so teuer wie Gold—hat Trader Joe (ein Aldi-Zweig) auch ein paar gute Sorten im Angebot.
Natürlich ist für eine(n) Bayer(i)n in Arizona das Leben längst nicht perfekt. Eine Schmerzenszulage für die Wüste wäre nicht schlecht. Aber man arrangiert sich mit allen Mängeln. Fast wäre mein Leben kürzlich ganz perfekt geworden.
Kloster Reutberg von Michael Gollers Schreibtisch aus
Gehe ich da mit einer Freundin, eine neue Bekanntschaft, nichtsahnend in unser besseres Bistro „De Vine“. Das war im März, und wir haben uns gleich bequem auf die Terrasse gesetzt. Wein? Bier? Natürlich Bier. „Kennst duschon unser ausgezeichnetes Dunkel“?, fragte die Bedienung. Sie sagte eigentlich „Dankel“.
Ja, bitte, dann her damit! Und was bringt mir dieser freundliche Engel? Ein Reutberger! Und das in Gehweite von unserem Haus! Ich denk, mich trifft der Schlag. Da habe ich gleich noch eines getrunken. Und die Flasche mit heim genommen. (Das war gut so, wie sich später herausstellte.) Mein freundlicher Ehemann hat mich dann noch obendrein mit ein paar Fläschchen überrascht, pro Stück um die 10 Dollar.
Wie groß kann meine Enttäuschung sein? Das nächste Mal gehe ich zu De Vine, und sie haben mein „Dankel“ nicht. Die Bedienung ist überfreundlich und will mir allen möglichen anderen Stoff verkaufen, aber sie weiß gar nicht, mit wem sie es hier eigentlich zu tun hat.
Mein Großvater war ein Pferdenarr
Schon mein Großvater hat nämlich mit Reutberger Bier gehandelt. Sein Bierdepot war im Waschhaus neben dem Hof. Dankel, Hell oder Weiß. Verdient hat der damit kaum etwas, aber das Handeln war ihm wichtig. Jeden Dienstag kamen die Hofmänner (Hofmann, Vater und Sohn oder Bruder) und brachten ihm die bestellten Tragl für seine Stammkunden.
Da war der Kameter, unser Hausmetzger mit der Seemanns-Tätowierung, der Lang von Siegertshofen, der ziemlich rund und mollig war, und der Mannert, dürr wie ein Zwetschgenmännchen, und oft noch der Reisig, bei dem die Gewohnheit weit über das Maß ging. So ein Bierverkauf dauerte mindestens 38 Minuten im Durchschnitt. Speziell wenn daraus ein Kartenspiel wurde. Ich durfte auch manchmal mit den alten Herren Watten, aber nur wenn ein Spieler zu wenig war.
Und einmal im Jahr gab es Genossenschaftsessen im Reutberg. Da hat mich mein Großvater eines schönen Tages mitgenommen. Aber ich kotzte leider ganz spontan, weil sich die Essiggurken mit der Cola überhaupt nicht vertrugen. Hätte ich nur ein Dunkles getrunken. Aber mit zehn denkt man halt nicht so weit. Ich weiß nicht mehr, ob mich der Großvater noch ein zweites Mal mitgenommen hat.
Klassentreffen im Reutberger Biergarten
Natürlich sind diese alten Zeiten schon längst dabei. Aber ich dachte, dafür dass ich so vielen alten Männern zugehorcht und mit ihnen Karten gespielt hatte, sollte ich mir das schöne alte Emaille-Schild von Opas Reutberger Bierdepot schon verdient haben. Meine Mutter brachte es mir bei einem Besuch nach Arizona mit.
Und jetzt im Jahr 2013? Nix mehr mit Münchner im Himmel. Hacker Pschorr, auch nicht schlecht, gibt es öfters mal, aber selten einen so feinen MicroBrew wie das Reutberger „Dankel“. Aber ich geb’ ja nicht so schnell auf.
Schreibe ich gleich an die Webadresse von dem amerikanischen Distributor vom Flascherletikett. Sofort schreibt mir ein freundlicher Herr eine Mail zurück, wo genau er das Reutberger Bier in Arizona herumschickt. Und wenn ich nicht erfolgreich sei, dann könnte ich ihn auch gerne mal antelefonieren.
Der Total Wine auf der Williams Field Road in Gilbert sollte mein Reutberger Dunkel haben. Da rufe ich an, und sie schauen äußerst hilfsbereit auf ihrem Computer nach. Sonst schon, aber heute nicht, sagen sie klagend. Aber der Store in Phoenix auf der Camelback Road hätte noch einen Karton voll.
Merry Christmas from Cactus Nick
Gleich beim Laden angeklingelt. Ja, genau, sie hätten da noch einiges vom Reutberger Bier. Hallelujah, für die Feiertage!
Also ziehe ich sofort mit dem Mapquest auf 36 Meilen unbekanntes Gelände. Nach ein paar Fehlabbiegungen stehe ich endlich vor dem Geschäft (oder Warenlager?). Der Laden—Total Wine (&Beer), das stimmte total–hatte einfach alles! Sogar Apfelkorn und blauen Tequilla, chinesisches Bier, thailändische Barbecue Anzünder, Weine um die 100 Dollar pro Flasche bis unter das Hallendach—dass wir Menschen so viel saufen?—und auch das Reutberger.
Aber, das ist doch ein Helles! Gleich rufe ich nach dem schwarz gekleideten jungen Mann mit den großen Löchern in den Ohren. Er bemüht sich sehr freundlich und riskiert offensichtlich für mich Kopf und Kragen, weil er mit seiner Schiebeleiter auf das höchste Regal klettert. Aber da oben ist auch nichts mehr zu finden.
Nur ein einziges Flascherl Reutberger Dunkel taucht hinter den Hellen versteckt letztendlich doch noch auf. Das war’s! Das “Dankel” ist etwas ganz Besonderes. Bestimmt hatte schon ein anderer Liebhaber die Flasche so versteckt, dass sie nur für ihn allein noch zu finden war.
Die edle Gelegenheit mein Dunkles zu genießen muss ich mir erst noch ausdenken. Denn dabei will ich mich im Himmels-Willen nicht vertun. Es wäre schad, wenn es den Zweck verfehlte. Mit dem Benzin eingerechnet kommt mir dieses eine Fläschchen Bier teuer zu stehen, etwa 20 Dollar. Aber das war es mir wert.
Also, wenn du mich besuchen willst, dann weißt du eh schon, was du mir mitbringen kannst. Na dann Prost! Und Reutberg sei Dank!
Mein Großvater hat in vielen Facetten die dominante Rolle des Jakobs in meinem Roman „Der Keltenschimmel“ beeinflusst. Ich verdanke ihm ganz viele bunte Eindrücke meiner Kinderzeit, die originalgetreu aus dem bäuerlichen Leben gegriffen sind.
Kerala is under communist leadership. From driving through the land, catching fleeting impressions with my tourist eyes, I thought that individuals, even the lowliest street hawkers, feel more like a part of society than any of us in the US of A. People in India know their roles, rights, and entitlements. Participation in the community in Kerala appeared to be much stronger than in the US, where half the population doesn’t even vote. We saw a communist rally march, noticed many campaign posters, and spotted numerous calls for recycling and other public service announcements.
A government can certainly make people feel as a part of the whole. Take for example the Periyar National Park and Tiger Reserve. Since its inception in 1982, the Periyar National Park has enrolled its local villagers as guardians of the preserve. That was a smart move, because now the locals have gained not only a source of income as guides and rangers, they have also dropped what one official brochure called “poaching.”
At the Gavi safari headquarters, at least a dozen guides met up with their tourists in small groups; breakfast and lunch provided at the cafeteria. Vijay, our guide who lives in the ecotourism village of Gavi, took us on a small hike from the ranger station to the top of one of the 18 hills in the park. All hikers had to wear gaiters up to the knee to protect us against leeches.
The hike was short but quite scenic. At the peak of the hill, Vijay directed our attention to the Sabarimala temple, nestled in the valley’s jungle. The famous sanctuary can only be reached on foot via a trail and nevertheless the temple attracts 10–15 million pilgrims annually, although it has restrictive opening seasons. A military station has been built next to it to watch over the ever increasing amount of gold in the sanctuary, as well as to monitor the religious fervor. Holy passions have a history of getting out of hand in a land of many faiths. Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity are all running their strong agendas.
At Periyar National Park, you can’t go hiking on your own. First of all, about 800 elephants live in the area. Although we saw plenty manure on the narrow road, we unfortunately didn’t spot an animal as such. Second, the park is home to an estimated 40 tigers and some hundred leopards, who may be looking for an easy meal. Third, there are few trails and, as anywhere in the wild, you could get lost and bitten by one of the 300 species of poisonous snakes. Dead tourists are no good advert. Bottom line: don’t go hiking without a ranger. Last but not least, tribals live in the forest too. And they also want to be left alone.
Vijay rowed us in a boat to the Gavi waterfall, which also provides the water for the ecotourism center. He pointed out various species of birds and spotted an orchid called Dancing Girl. 
He took us on a walk through the arboretum, where we learned about wild mango, chiku (sapodilla), guava, plantains, and allspice. He lit up 
the resin from the Boswellia serrata tree (frankincense). He was very knowledgeable and proud to share the natural beauties. His forebears may have been poachers, but Vijay now had become an advocate and protector for his paradise.
And there are lots of animals in it. We saw monkeys of several species, herds of gaur (bison), sambar (deer), mongoose, and birds of all kinds on an afternoon boat trip on Lake Periyar. And Vijay and the other rangers had a proud stake in all of this. They enjoyed protecting and sharing the forest at the same time. Of course, we missed out on the tigers, perhaps good so. And we also didn’t spot an elephant. But their droppings were plenty.
Kerala, like all of India, is densely populated. Nothing goes without collaboration because you depend on it. We eventually arrived at our final destination at Abad resort. Even the beach bum dogs of Marari Beach understand this. The packs of mutts wait patiently every morning for the fisher boats to return. The symbiosis between fishermen, dogs, and restaurant trash has deep roots.
In the old days, a whole house could be roofed with palm leaves. There is much reuse and recycle going on based on the scarcity of materials but also new inventions such as paper straws have made their way to market. In our resort, Abad Turtle Beach, three miniature bovines were kept on premises, not for milk but for lawn mowing, their manure serving to fertilize the vegetable garden.
The international group of doctors, most accompanied by their supportive spouses, retraced their college experience. They visited the various departments at GRMC campus, where college Dean Dr. R.K.S. Dhakar received the alumni in his conference room. The international group also chanced upon a dear colleague from the old days, Dr. Ranjna Tiwari, Professor of Community Health and expert sitar player.
During the course of two days, the medical professionals went down memory lane swapping stories of mischief and accomplishments. The city had changed a lot but eventually each alumnus sleuthed out their former abodes. The seven GRMC exes, who had been planning this joint outing for the last five years, bonded even more strongly over this exciting endeavor.
Its rustic charm was irresistible. The Crofting Inn put forth a Hallmark lumberjack façade. The bed and breakfast in Cloudcroft, New Mexico, offers 7 quaint, old-fashioned rooms. Just what my friend, Bandanaland Princess Edda, had been looking for. She was planning to get away from the Texas heat for a summer outing to this ski resort village with her Prince Helmut.
“No problem!” the hostess said. “We will move you into another unit.” Those showers were totally up to date.
A couple from Kerrville, Texas, shared their discovery of mega croissants from the best bakery in the 950-souls-strong little western town of Cloudcroft. They talked with an astoundingly sprite 90-year-old woman who celebrated her birthday with a family reunion. And a good-looking couple was planning a flashy wedding.
“We get many guests from Texas up here,” Gail explained. “They are very fond of Western themes, in which the bandana plays a pig part.” So, she made her place extra comfy and welcoming for cowboys and cowgirls. This goes to show again that there is creativity in bandanas to no end. The sky hangs full with bandanas at the Cloudcroft Inn.
Australia (yes, this is NOT China) drives on the left, walks on the left, sneezes to the left. How do you avoid being run over? Are Australians bound to be more left-handed too? I figure, they’ve got to be, because the left does most of the work in a car: gears, wipers, climate control, radio. Try that for a change.
The Holiday Inn at Darling Harbor lies amidst China Town. Only Asian people around, Beijing ducks in the shop windows, tasty donut holes (Emperor Puffs) filled with custard, boba shops with many flavors, and the whole range of Oriental cuisine. But what’s with the jostling? Did everybody switch off their inborn proximity sensor?
But just go for it! In Australia, you don’t need money. They will take a plastic card for everything. Even the commemorative coin machine at the Sydney Aquarium spews out your minted penny for a tap. The aquarium is an excellent place to go under the sea. It has some of the best shark tanks around
On the first morning, a ketchup packet exploded on me: I pointed it the wrong way, squeezed, and voila had ketchup all over my snout. Most things don’t seem obvious when you’re under a 14-hour jet lag. Yeah, the blow dryer flicked the frothy soap all over my shirt. Silly me, I hadn’t approached the duplicitous (double-action) faucet from the right angle. Fortunately, Sydney seemed so much cleaner than our American cities. Kudos to the restrooms! And drinks come only with paper straws and there is an extra charge for takeout containers.
I had fun bumbling along the parks and exploring on foot. My mission on Tuesday was to reach the beach. Another faux pas! Bondi is pronounced “Bon-die” or “Bon-day” Beach. Good day? Or a good day to die? Huh? That’s what the Lakota would say. The bus driver wrinkled his brow, then smiled, and taught me the correct pronunciation of my destination.
It’s fun to watch the surfers at Bondi. Even better than staring into the tide pools at La Jolla. I settled into a coffee shop for a capuccino and avocado sandwich. Australia had me then and there.
