Midmod Musings

We'll Take Manhattan

On the plane bound for New York. After a November for the record books, bereft of any snow and 15 degrees warmer than any November since the 1950s, our December 3rd flight sat idle on the runway. Pelting, meager snowflakes necessitated de-icing, and strong winds in Manhattan delayed our flight.

I like to go to the City at least once a calendar year. It recharges me. It exhausts me. It thrills me. It makes me alive in ways that daily life in St. Paul (much as I try to advocate for the humble, dear little town) does not. I haven't been to Manhattan now for more than two years. I haven't been there with someone I love more more than 12. There was the unfortunate birthday visit in 2006, hijacked by The Stalker. (I had wanted a weekend tryst with Gotham. I got instead an uncomfortable three-way: every fleeting romantic brush with the City squashed by the fawning, suffocating embrace of The Stalker.)

Now I find myself in seat 12-C, with Paul in 12-A, an empty seat between us bearing our New York Times, our New Yorker, the tray-table giving rest to empty coffee cups and pretzel bags. I love the man in 12-A. His eyes droop (despite a peppermint mocha latte at the airport). He fumbles with his new toy, an iPod Touch. There's a childlike sparkle in his otherwise tired eyes as his thumb slides across the screen. Just now he showed me the George Michael CD he downloaded, vertically, then horizontally. He beams as he demonstrates the nifty technology, then turns to the front page section of the Times to read an article about civil rights.

I can't wait to share Manhattan with Paul. I'm afraid I will want to fill the time too fully, to see more than the three shows, three museums, one college friend, two piano bars, one cabaret act, and 48 shops on Fifth Avenue that  we have planned. I want my lovers to get to know each other, intimately. I want them to get along. Maybe we can make this a regular thing, the three of us. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The New Yorker is open to the “Faces of Power” photo essay by Platon. I had heard an interview with the artist on MPR a couple of days ago. I was intrigued to see these pictures, taken during the General Assembly at the U.N. earlier this year. The magazine is open to a photo of Dmitry Medvedev, the President of Russia. He's an alarmingly handsome world leader, with big, dark eyes, a perfect nose, and  thin, handsome lips. I really like his tie. Hell, I really like his face. (How does one write “I [heart] U” in cyrillic letters?] He's only a year older than me. How different lives can be. What impels a man to become a leader? What is the nature of that ambition? I don't have it. I see little in these faces – some demonic (Muammar Qaddafi of Libya), some sly (Silvio Berlusconi of Italy), some Breughelesque (Brian Cowan of Ireland) – that I find in my reflection. (Though, this morning, I cut my nose shaving, and the red blob of clotted blood that lingers there mimics the warts and growths on many of the close-up portraits.)

Of the world leaders depicted, only three are women, and two of them are from South America. And Cristina Fernandez, President of Argentina, is kind of a babe. With flowing brown hair, full lips, a bright red jacket and elegant pearls, she appears stylish and  warm. The kind of world leader you could go straight for. While I know nothing about her politics, her flair alone reaffirms my desire to retire in Buenos Aires. Where gays can marry. Which they can't in New York. [sigh]

***

Arrived in Chinatown. Though the neighborhood around our hotel smells like shu mai and Peking duck, our concierge recommended lunch in Little Italy. Go figure.

Machu Picchu

I can blame Tom Cruise for a lot of pop culture effluvia. I'm not sure he deserves my disdain for Berlin's megahit ballad, "Take My Breath Away," but since it came from Top Gun, I'll hold him responsible anyway. The song renders banal an exquisite sensation that I have experienced exactly three times - having the breath leave me in sudden and powerful moment of awe.

The first time, I was on a public tour of Radio City Music Hall. We stepped into the grand lobby and I nearly passed out. The art deco grandeur, the soaring design, the palpable sense of American show business history - I felt the air leave me and I remained light-headed for several minutes. The second time was in Paris, in Sainte Chapelle. The spectacular yet intimate Gothic chapel, with its magnificent stained glass, sucked the air from my lungs in a similar way. This time, I also cried. The beauty overwhelmed me. 

It took 16 years before it happened a third time. Machu Picchu showed me I could still feel awe. It has taken me weeks to try and write about this part of the Peru trip. The desire to do justice to this mystical place has in essence paralyzed me. (Well, that, and my feeble return to the internet dating scene - but that's another blog entry altogether.) There was a high probability that Machu Picchu would be a let down. After so many years wanting to go there, how could it possibly live up to the expectations I had spackled upon it? Yet the day's events built perfectly to the thrilling moment when I first saw the Lost City of the Incas.

We departed Casa Andina in the Sacred Valley to visit the ruins of Ollantaytambo. This ancient Inca fortress, with its steep terraces, its massive stonework, and its ritual baths, got my juices flowing. I basically consider myself afraid of heights, but something about climbing on a ruin seems to override that fear. The panoramic views from the fortress made every step exhilarating.

I'll be honest. I remember Laura telling us that Ollantaytambo means "resting place of Ollantay," who was a celebrated general, and I recall some details about the granaries and the temple and the mountain opposite the fortress that supposedly bears the profile image of an Inca deity in the rock formations. But little else stuck, or maybe I didn't hear it, because I was so transfixed by the setting.  

We then boarded the Hiram Bingham Orient Express train to Machu Picchu. There was much confusion among our group about luggage at this time. Due to space constraints on the train, we were limited to taking only a special souvenir  Orient Express tote bag; the rest of our luggage went on to Cuzco where we would meet up with it two days later. Imagine telling 39 gay men (or my mother, for that matter) that all they could take for two days of travel was whatever you could fit in a sack the size of a small gym bag. The directions all seemed pretty clear to me, but denial is a powerful thing. People kept wanting to bring their suitcases, their carry-ons, and more. You'd think they had lost family members to cholera when they realized they really couldn't have them! 

Once on board, this 1-1/2 hour brunch trip was a delightful step back in time. The  train, with its white linen service, brass fixtures, and elegant woodwork, felt like something out of a 1930s movie. The three-course champagne brunch was a gourmet experience, accompanied by the ever-changing view of the landscape out our window. The Urubamba River as well as the ancient Inca Trail ran parallel to the tracks, mountains rose up, the rainforest encroached, the climate changed.

When you arrive in Aguas Calientes, the town at the base of the mountain atop which Machu Picchu sits, your Hiram Bingham bags get whisked to your hotel and you board a bus to the ruins. It takes about 25 minutes, on a narrow switchback road with no guard rails. The only traffic appears to be other tourist buses. Occasionally two buses meet, and in a ritual that is kind of the opposite of a game of chicken, one of the drivers stops, backs up, and pulls as far over as possible to let the other bus pass. I wondered what etiquette the drivers followed, what were the rules for who backs up and who moves forward? I tried not to think about what happens if a newbie driver gets the signals wrong. Looking out my window at the precipitous drop to Aguas Calientes, I felt glad that our driver appeared to be a seasoned pro.

At the top of the mountain, the road ends at the entrance to the national park. Our group followed Laura on foot up a steep path through lush foliage. The climate in Machu Picchu (which, by the way, means "old mountain") is called a cloud forest, and the name certainly seemed apt. As we rounded a corner, Machu Picchu abruptly came into view below. It's the perspective that you see in almost every postcard, with Huyana Picchu ("young mountain") behind the city. And as familiar as the visual was, I was unprepared to see it in three dimensions. My breath departed like a reverse gasp, and my eyes teared up.

As much as I adored Laura, I could not stay by her side the whole time to hear her comments. I was like a naughty kid on a school trip, straying from the group, running up ahead, lagging behind. Machu Picchu pulled me in its own directions, and I had to follow where it told me to go. So I don't have as much to share about the city. Apparently, the central part of the ruin was a royal palace. About 500 - 800 people lived there. No one really knows why the Incas abandoned it. The Spaniards never found it; the ruins weren't discovered until Bingham's 1911 expedition from Yale. There are various temples and residences in the city, as well as "industrial" buildings where, for example, mortars ground grain or dyes. Instead of describing the site in words, though, I will instead share some of my favorite photos. Words can't do justice to the majesty of the setting, and hopefully, some of these images capture the mystic serenity of this amazing place.

   

My Zoom roomie Jerry said to me as we wandered through the ruins, "You look so completely happy." Can't you just tell from this picture of me, taken by Zoomer Rob, that I am bubbling over with joy? This, my friends, is what you look like when a dream comes true:

 

In the Sacred Valley of the Incas

About four times a year, I drive from the Twin Cities to Rochester, MN, for antique shows. Halfway there, you see a directional sign to a town called Wanamingo. I am physically unable to pass that sign without shouting at the top of my lungs, "Wah-nah-MING-o!" It's insanely fun to say out loud. Try it. It's one of my favorite place names, right up there with Cucamonga.

In Peru I found a new name, even more musical and wonderful to say aloud: Urubamba. The Urubamba River winds through the Andes, creating what is known as the Sacred Valley. The lush, fertile lands around the river are surrounded by jagged slopes, many of which were terraced by the Incas for agriculture. For someone who has never really been in the mountains, I was awestruck by the scenery.

To get to the Sacred Valley, the Zoom trip takes you from Lima to Cusco by plane - sea level to 12,000 feet. From there, a bus takes you on winding roads with no guard rails down into the Valley, which is at about 8,000 feet. The idea is to help the traveler adjust to altitude gradually. I worried how my body would react to the height. The highest point in Minnesota is all of 2,300 feet. When I was a teen, my family drove through Colorado, and the highest elevation we passed through was 6,000 feet. As a prophylactic against altitude sickness, I drank plenty of coca tea that morning. From what I understand, coca leaves are stimulants that help your body adjust to altitude by getting your blood to pump faster, bringing more oxygen to your cells.   

Arriving in Cusco proved staggeringly disorienting. Stepping off the plane onto the tarmac, the sun was dazzling, the air warm. Joel from Zoom cautioned us many times to move slowly, to walk as if we were on the moon. I felt short of breath, but that was about it. A few Zoomers got really sick, though - crumpling with nausea. An oxygen mask gave them temporary relief. Vendors in the airport parking lot sold coca leaves (for chewing) and coca candies. I bought some just to be safe.

Our first day's excursion in the valley took us to an experimental agricultural station built by the Incas. As our guide Laura noted, the perfect geometry of these concentric terraces -- which offer slightly different climatic conditions as you descend -- show that the Incas understood math. Even more remarkable was the experience of going down into the structure. At the top, cold winds buffeted us; the center was bereft of wind and noticeably warmer.

Afterwards, we went to the salt mines at Maras. The Incas figured out how to divert a spring that went through salty strata of the earth. They terraced the hillside to collect  the salty water in small ponds. As the water evaporated, they would harvest the salt deposits that remained. If I remember Laura's comments correctly, salt in the Inca times was a valuable commodity, used ritually as well as in preparing food, and here they had an ingenious and expansive source of it.

Our second day in the Valley included a stop at a llama farm, where we got to see these gentle (if stinky) creatures up close, along with their camelid cousins, the alpaca and the vicuna. (There's a fourth one, the name of which I can never remember. I think it starts with a G.) Alpaca had just started appearing on menus in the Valley, and it was a little disconcerting to see the beasts up close and feed them alfalfa. One felt a little like the witch, fattening up Hansel & Gretel for dinner. 

A highlight of the day was our visit to the Pisac Market. Nothing like setting a bunch of homos loose on a shopping district. The fabulous  Laura (which, by the way, is pronounced LAUW-rah; LOHR-ah, she informed us, means "big nose") showed us how to tell the real stuff (alpaca wool, silver) from crap (acrylic, nickel). Her stated goal was to teach us "the difference between baby alpaca and maybe alpaca."

Upon completion of our tutorial, we we were off to the races. In fact, Pisac had been a destination on The Amazing Race, and I can see why ... trying to find your way through the crowds, the colors, the street vendors, the tourists, the tchotchkes, and the roasted guinea pigs is a challenge. Yes, you read that right. Cuy (guinea pig) is common fare from street vendors here. While I had no trouble consuming ceviche or alpaca, I drew the line at cuy. I think there ought to be a rule that you don't eat anything you had as a class pet in sixth-grade science. At the market, I bought a few small gift items as well as a lovely (and expensive) alpaca tapestry with the Inca calendar in the design. Laura applauded its quality when I saw her later on the street, so I know I got a good buy.

After shopping, we had lunch at an old colonial estate overlooking the Urubamba. The house was gorgeous in its simplicity, and the vast gardens offered spectacular vistas at every turn. As is customary, we were greeted with pisco sours, the official welcome drink of Peru. In three short days I had become alarmingly fond of the frothy little beverages. Comprised of pisco (a grape-based brandy), sugar syrup, lime juice, and whipped egg whites, and garnished variously with a drop of bitters or a dusting of cinammon, they really are tasty and festive. And strong. The world looks better with a pisco sour in your hand. So, I imagine, do ugly people and poker hands. It's a good thing they only give you one.

Back at the hotel, Casa Andina, I had a hot stone massage while others on the trip took a horseback ride. I think I made a wise choice. I really didn't have a need to add "saddle sores" to the list of ailments that afflict me.

Impressions of Lima

If one enjoys the lyrics of the great Sammy Cahn (and if one doesn't, one should leave this blog right now), this invitation is familiar:

Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru
In llama land there's a one-man band
And he'll toot his flute for you

Let's just say Mr. Cahn's romantic notion of floating to llama land has little to do with modern air travel. Most airlines deposit you in Lima at an hour you'd rather be asleep, drunk, or making sweet, sweet love. I chose a flight on Delta that was supposed to arrive just before midnight. A delay in Atlanta meant our flight arrived around 2 in the morning. The only thing that made standing around a baggage carousel even remotely bearable at that hour was the little game of "spot the other homos" I played with myself - correctly identifying five complete strangers as fellow Zoom travelers. (My gaydar works even in a country with 220V current.) Our transfer driver greeted us outside baggage claim with a discreet placard that was the visual equivalent of a whisper at a circus. I think we were all expecting rainbow balloons and mardi gras beads. Nevertheless, we found him, and we climbed aboard his van.

First impressions are hard to overcome. Lima is peculiar. There don't seem to be any highways in Lima. City streets lead from the airport through a gaudy district of shops, two-story residences (many lacking roofs or walls), and neon-bright casinos with American names: New York, Miami Beach, Hollywood. The homes all have roll-down gates like shops in Manhattan; the casinos are garish and kitschy. Our hotel, the Melia, was a five-star property in San Isidro, the embassy district. As we approached, the buildings became more regal, but the fences were higher -- occasionally with watch towers and armed guards standing at gates. What kind of city is this? I thought.

We learned that Lima is peculiar in many ways. Climatically, the city is in a perpetual gloom. It's cloudy 9 months out of 12, yet it only rains 4 days a year. The low-rise buildings are a response to the earthquake-prone nature of the Peruvian coast. And the traffic is cataclysmic. When asked about the rampant recklessness of drivers, our guide informed us, "In Lima we have traffic laws like you have in your cities. We choose not to follow them."

The first day of touring involved shopping at the marvelous silversmith shop Ilaria and visiting museums chock full of pre-Columbian artifacts. The combination of high-end retail and cultural history proved quite beguiling. Especially the collection of erotic art at the Museo Larco. I mean seriously, would you drink out of this cup?

Our guide Julia explained the significance of the piece was that it showed that the Moche people used circumcision. I'm not sure I'd want to be reminded of that while sipping my chardonnay. And yet I find its sculptural majesty striking.

Dinner the first night was at Casa Solar de Aliaga, a private residence that has been occupied by the same family for 17 generations. Built in 1535, it stands in the colonial heart of downtown Lima, an area I found to be especially beautiful architecturally. The opportunity to dine in this unique home - furnished lavishly in antiques - was amazing. The guys from Zoom, Bryan and Joel, gave each of us on the tour a necklace with the Andean cross, or Chacana. "You come from different cities, you lead different lives, but now you all have one thing in common." The gesture was poetic, and bonded us instantly. It was a terrific night - getting to know the group, enjoying a sumptuous meal by candlelight.

The second day, we visited historic monasteries and saw the downtown district in daylight. The architecture and street life proved exhilarating. We happened upon a procession in honor of an African-born saint, and the streets were congested with revelers. Flowers were strewn all over; brass instruments blared; children squealed and ran around underfoot. The city seemed different there and then - a teeming, happy, cacophanous delight.

That afternoon, I did not go on the Zoom excursion. Instead I went to the Lima Art Museum on my own. The gallery is in an old exposition hall surrounded by a park in the modern urban center of the city. Again, I was struck by the boisterousness of the environment. Families strolled the park; young couples had no qualms about showing their affection in public. Inside, the galleries were quiet. The art spanned pre-Columbian times through the present day. Between the pre-Columbian era and the 1800s, it seems that art was almost entirely religious or devotional. Countless Marys, Jesuses, and Archangels graced the walls. Then, as if someone had flipped a switch one day around 1830, art suddenly embraced other genres: landscapes, portraits, still lifes. Movements from Europe - the Barbizon school, Impressionism - clearly had reached Lima, and art departed even more radically. Unusual compositions, nudes, abstraction... it was exciting to see these artists, unknown to me, and watch the evolution of a nation's culture through the art on those walls.

Stepping outside again into the park, the sun was out. I had been told not to expect it, yet there it was, beaming down on the populace and one giddy tourist.

Dream Land

I no longer recall how it began, my desire to see Machu Picchu. I was (and remain) something of a geek for lost civilizations. At age 5, you could ask me about Egyptian mythology, and I would tell you about Ra and Osiris and Anubis. I knew about Aztecs and Mayans, and I knew at least as much about Mesopotamia as the B-52s. But I don't remember learning about the Incas. I just have always wanted to, had to, go to Peru.

My dad subscribed to National Geographic, so maybe that was what planted the seed. One day, young me tore open the discreet brown paper wrapper and flipped eagerly through the pages. Perhaps I was looking for pictures of pygmy tribes, or a photo spread on the ocelot. Instead I discovered Machu Picchu. Episodes of Jonny Quest may have played a role, too. I could imagine myself in an experimental jet, Race Bannon at the controls, flying to some remote Andean location. Whatever the cause, I can't remember a time before I wanted to go there.

After last year's trip to Buenos Aires broke the south-of-the-equator barrier for me, my drive to see Peru became stronger. A Google search for "gay travel Peru" turned up Zoom Vacations out of Chicago. Their 8-day trip seemed to include the geographic highlights I was looking for, with expert guides, a manageable group size, and a pleasing blend of adventure and luxury. It was more expensive than I had hoped for, but I spoke with the Zoom guys on the phone and had a good feeling. I signed up.

Cut to 9 months later. Boarding the plane to Lima proved strangely emotional. This really was the trip of a lifetime. What if it didn't live up to my expectations? What if it did? What would I dream about after I got there? I should never be allowed on an intercontinental flight without medication. I stewed unnecessarily. (It's not like I had a choice - the in-flight movie was Mr. Bean's Holiday - musing about toenail clippings would have been more entertaining.) Peru was magical, and the Zoom tour was exceptional. Over the next few days, I will post pictures and anecdotes from the trip. Please feel free to post comments and ask questions. It will help me shape my entries.

Transportation

     Here, in New York, where I am spoiled by transit opportunities unavailable in Minnesota, the mundane act of getting somewhere offers peculiar pleasures. As modern and new as Manhattan is, its subways and trains travel the rails of earlier eras. They can take the willing passenger to places other than his destination. Yesterday, my destination was the Russel Wright Awards Luncheon in Garrison, NY.

     The train from Grand Central to Garrison takes about 90 minutes. That’s a lot of time to imagine living lives other than one’s own. In the flurry of the terminal, dressed as I was for a gala luncheon in jacket and tie, I had a momentary “Mad Men” fantasy. I could have been a high-powered ad agency exec, leaving my mistress in the city and heading back to my family in Peekskill. I wished I could have a martini, even though it was only 9:30in the morning. The urge to smoke was alarming.

     On the train, reading the Sunday Times, I looked up from the arts section often enough to absorb the bucolic vistas along the Hudson. I understood how artists were inspired by the River. The crisp, lucid autumn air made for dazzling light. Sailboats skimmed the water’s surface, breaking the pane of blue and streaking it with white wakes. Only a few trees had started to change, and they blazed red and orange among their vivid green neighbors. I wished I had learned to paint. I felt a strange yearning to seize those colors and hold that exuberant light, suspended, so I could revisit them at leisure. I imagined myself on a promontory, an easel before me, and a canvas thick with brushstrokes. Perhaps I wore a beret or a cloak. My thumb poked through the hole of a palette. I still wanted to smoke.

     A shuttle met me and four others to take us to The Garrison. Less than 10 minutes along wooded, winding roads, and we found ourselves at the splendid inn/golf course/restaurant. On a hill overlooking the Hudson valley, it conjured a life where chats with people named Chuck and Waddy were commonplace, where French Canadians named Gustave and New York furniture designers named Wallis sipped champagne near flowerbeds. Which in fact was the case. Charming people, one and all. I could have felt like quite the poseur, and yet I have managed enough fundraising events in my day to know how to behave. Besides, I was in New York, where I am always magically transformed into someone vastly more scintillating than I am in Minnesota. I charged pell-mell at anyone who looked interesting and struck up a conversation.

     I let out a little gasp when I saw an elegantly frail woman with white hair roll onto the lawn in a wheelchair. It was Eva Zeisel, the centenarian designer whose work I enthusiastically collect along with Wright’s. She attracted admirers like the black-eyed Susans behind her drew bees. I approached her daughter, Jean, and requested an audience. I got the opportunity to speak to her briefly about the chapters I am writing about her designs for a collectors’ book. I thanked her for how much joy she had brought to my world. She clinked my glass with hers and squeezed my hand. It was like being blessed by the pope or knighted by the queen. I left her presence in an elevated state.

     I was the guest of super-collectors Gary and Laura Maurer. We had a lively table of collectors, including eBay rival tsilv425 and his partner Kelly; James McKinney; and the aforementioned Chuck and Waddy, who were actually guests of the auction committee chair, Lithgow. (I revel in these names – so delightfully East Coast Episcopalian, so alien to an ear dulled by a lifetime in Lutheran Land.) Waddy grew up dining on Iroquois Casual China in white and blue. He and Chuck use chartreuse and seafoam American Modern at their country home. It’s little details like this collectors share and take genuine interest in. You can learn a lot about a person by the dinnerware they collect, or at least make snap judgments about them. I have high esteem for Chuck and Waddy, because chartreuse and seafoam are my preferred combination, too. (Although I throw in a little black chutney to add an earthiness to the table.)

     The event honored Herman Miller furniture company – introduced by the grandson of Charles and Ray Eames, Eames Demetrius (another great name) – and Mitchell Wolfson, founder of the Wolfsonian Museum in Miami Beach. A memorable film clip about Wolfson showed him drooling over a stunning streamlined scale model auto, with amazing documentation about the design, only to be told it was made in 1946. His collection stops at 1945. He was genuinely devastated. But passion won out over mission – he broke down and bought the piece.

     A live auction generated nearly $25,000 in revenue for Manitoga and the Russel Wright Design Center. The fundraiser in me took joy in their success, even as the items I would have liked fetched bank-breaking prices. A pair of Riverside China carafes, donated and signed by Eva Zeisel, went for $3,250. My maximum bid of $700 was passed less than a second after it was made. I consoled myself with a luncheon set that Gary had donated to the silent auction: a granite grey hostess plate and demitasse with a seafoam and gray Simtex Harvest tablecloth – the one color combination I had not yet been able to obtain. The cloth will make a delightful setting for my next dinner party.

     As the luncheon wound down, a shuttle took us over to Manitoga to see the property we had just supported. My only previous visit had been in 2001, in December, when Wright’s thoughtful landscape had been denuded and his home, Dragon Rock, lay exposed. In the brilliant weather, with trees and vines and plants still robust, the house seemed even more magical, a modernist marvel glimpsed through foliage like a buck that stopped momentarily to regard its onlooker before vanishing into the leaves. I’m not sure I was supposed to, but I left my group and hiked Wright’s “cocktail walk” from the bottom of the hill around the pond to experience the theatrical reveal that Wright intended. As you climb the stone steps and round a bend, the house suddenly appears, as if a curtain had been lifted. Further along, the marvelous “moss room” looks down upon the house – grey-green moss absolutely covers the ground and rock inside a small grove of hemlock trees. Sadly, a blight on the trees threatens the moss. The hemlocks provide essential shade, and with the trees dying off, the moss room may cease to be. (Another reason to support Manitoga – preserving Wright’s ingenious landscape. You can donate by clicking here.)

     The house itself is a marvel. The restored studio wing, with hemlock needles embedded in the ceiling plaster and its light-filled office, feels paradoxically modern and quaint. The main house, still being restored, offers a thrill in warm weather. With its floor-to-ceiling glass doors open, it’s impossible to tell where the stone-floored living space ends and the outdoors begin. One really appreciates Wright’s integration of home and landscape. Even the sliding doors to the bathroom incorporate leaves and butterflies from the area, pressed between layers of acrylic. (And is it really weird to get a tickle from having peed in Russel Wright’s toilet?)

     “Unique” is an overused and seldom accurate description, but Manitoga earns the title. I’m grateful for the opportunity to once again have seen this astonishing property. As the day concluded, and the shuttle took us back to the railway station, I imagined one more life: that of a genius at the end of his career, enjoying the view from his studio, sipping coffee from a cup he had designed, and reaffirming his mantra. “Good design is for everyone.”

Cabin Fever

Upon my return from northern Wisconsin (Hertel, to be exact -- between Siren and Spooner), a friend asked me if I went camping a lot with my family when I was young. I did a spit take on my martini. I imagined my family camping. The Turkish surgeon who washed his hands after touching anything; the German mother who cleaned the bathrooms daily; and we kids, who, quite honestly, should have trademarked the name "Geek Squad" when we had the chance. Our idea of roughing it was shopping at Southdale instead of the Galleria. "No," I said. "We did not."

The Bilgutays' one foray into the all-American tradition of the family road trip was an odyssey through state parks in a 1977 white Cadillac El Dorado with red leather seats. Although we never went beyond Arizona, this trip was always referred to in our family as our West Coast Trip. Its misleading nomenclature somehow crytallized the bizarre experience in our collective memory. We drove through the Badlands to Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone, Bryce Canyon, and the Grand Canyon. We rode horses. We got dusty. We showered immediately upon checking into motels.

For the journey, my sister and I had recorded (off the radio--WLOL-FM) a mix tape of early 80s hits: Huey Lewis and the News, Melissa Manchester, Survivor, Human League, Juice Newton. We played this tape over and over again through the radio-free stretches of South Dakota and Nebraska. To this day, I can sing every word to "You Should Hear How She Talks About You" and "Do You Believe in Love" like a reflex. Dad would counter our music with interludes of Dean Martin, whose melodies are also etched in my grey matter -- "Memories Are Made of This" and "Sway" are odd bedfellows with lyrics like "I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar/that much is true..."

I drove to Hertel with a completely different soundtrack - the original cast recording of "Grey Gardens" and Gwen Stefani's latest. Angus added a rhythm track of bone-gnawing. The only way he is calm in the car is if he has something to chew. Otherwise he pants and yaps and drools over the back of my SUV.

Here are a few pictures from the trip, as well as some haikus.

Crickets chirp, birds squawk.

Angus accompanies them

on his mossy twig.

 

"Let sleeping dogs lie,"

they say. Angus suggests you

heed their sage advice.

Sunset shadows stretch

twice their maker's length toward

the next day's sunrise.

Back to Argentina (in my mind)

Having turned 40 without sprouting gray hair or craving prune juice, I pick up where I left off weeks ago with my account of Buenos Aires...

October 4, 2006

Recoleta Cemetery is a necropolis, a city of the dead. As you walk its streets and alleys, you can't avoid the grand monuments, the angels and saints, the life-sized sculptures of weeping mothers, the busts of the departed who inhabit the mausoleums. But it is the tiny details that surprise you and make you wonder: a dried carnation strung through a padlock, a living plant tucked inside a tomb, handmade lace draping a coffin, a silver framed portrait of a dog on an altar, a broken stained glass window that, if you approach too near, allows the clammy and haunting smell of morbidity to escape into sunlight. The experience of walking through the cemetery inspires quiet, thoughtful reverie... and occasionally a momentary halt to remind yourself that there are other, more likely reasons that a coffin lid lies on the floor of a tomb besides vampirism.

I was greeted at the cemetery by a young man who directed me to Evita's tomb. He explained that he has been living with AIDS for three years and handed me a pamphlet about the disease, asking whether I would help him buy the expensive medications he needed to survive. He showed me an ID badge to verify that he has the disease. I gave him two pesos -- a paltry amount -- but he seemed to appreciate it. How strange to be an unofficial greeter at the cemetery to raise funds for drugs. Memento mori.

Yesterday, spring had been merely a widespread rumor, given credence by the calendar and perpetuated by clothing stores that welcomed the season's new fashions. But the damp and clinging cold, coupled with a relentlessly gray sky, gave me cause to doubt the rumor and question the wisdom and gullibility of the Argentine people. Today, however, the sun is blazing, and I can barely walk a block without sweating as if I'd run a mile. My eyes are somehwat dazzled by the light; my contacts are unable to focus. In the cloisters next to the cemetery, the gilded baroque altars all blur and appear gauzy.

Later, October 4...

Daddy has found home. I am sitting under an umbrella on the terrace of Buenos Aires Design. It is essentially a mall for high end furniture, appliances, fixtures, and accessories. (Kind of like International Market Square in Minneapolis, but infinitely more hip.)  I have strolled here for hours since the cemetery, and now I am having lunch. I am about to be served by the cutest waiter in Argentina... and he speaks English with charming self-deprecation. I am very happy with my Warsteiner beer in the shade of an umbrella. Adding to my delight (oversharing alert!), I finally had a bowel movement. It has been DAYS. Despite salads and fiber supplements. DAYS. You can't imagine the sense of freedom.

The waiter just brought bread and a little pot of spread. "Dis ees hummus. You know hummus?" Shortly thereafter, my Caesar salad arrived. I thought that the English menu had been poorly translated, but the salad does in fact come with "crispy cheese" -- finely shredded Parmesan that has been baked into a thin lattice of, well, crispy cheese.

At a shop called Puro Diseno, I purchased a small juicer made of orange resin -- the design was adorable and I needed a juicer. I also bought two tokens to use in the "Machina de Arte." This old cigarette machine dispensed cigarette box-sized works of art by 20 local artists. A representative artwork was on display where the cigarette brand label would be. You put in your token, pulled the appropriate slot, and received an artwork below. I got one abstract piece to give to Jim and one image of a tango dancer's feet to give to Mom.

I wish I could say that the cemetery had lingered with me and provoked deep thought, but even though it is just across the street and in view of the restaurant, I can't say it has stayed with me. The bright plastics, elegant ceramics, and witty leather objects on view in the design emporium clutter my memory more fully, and the entree I ordered -- strips of beef tenderloin sauteed in soy sauce with mushrooms, peppers, tomatoes, zucchini, and eggplant -- has me thinking more about recipes than los muertos.

Nevertheless, I marvel at this city and its ability to juxtapose opposites. The somber and stately necropolis is flanked by recreational parks and shopping malls. The wealth and opulence of the city's core are dotted with examples of abject poverty. For instance, yesterday, I saw three boys, presumably brothers, lying asleep on their backs on a busy sidewalk in Microcentro. They were not, as you might see in New York or San Francisco, tucked in some underused doorway with a sleeping bag or newspapers to cover them. No, they lay in the middle of the sidewalk, one thin blanket shared between them. Pedestrians had to walk over them or risk stepping into the frenzied street traffic. The boys slept through it all -- the noise, the brush of designer shoes against their arms, the smell of trash in the gutter. How tired must one be to sleep like that? Is it even possible? Could I have even brought myself to lie prone on that filthy sidewalk, just to try, to see how my back felt upon the cobblestones?

No. That image haunts me more than the cemetery. It makes me grateful to be at a point in my life where I have no great wants. I am, by and large, content, and it is wonderful to realize that. I need to savor that now, remember that tomorrow.

Argentina - Part 5

October 3, 2006, later

At the recommendation of both my guidebook and my friend Jon (who had been to BA just two weeks earlier), I went to Milion for dinner. Despite wearing designer clothes, I was several notches lower on the hipness scale than my environs. On the second level of an old townhouse, the space was stunning: molded ceilings, parquet floors, glammed up with modern elements. Dangling globe lamps were spaced like planets and moons; a wall-size painting on shimmering fabric depicted the statue of El Libertador; a swirling, psychedelic light effect twirled over the mantel. Ambient techno music played at club level volume in the bar, and exotic rhythms traveled to pulse through the dining room. Everyone there was beautiful and well-dressed, with the exception of the man whose back was to me. He simply wore a blue button-down shirt and jeans. But I thought he was on a date with the man at his table, so I forgave him the ordinariness of his attire.

Earlier today, after lunch, I meandered throughout San Telmo and discovered that antique shops the world over are pretty much the same. The merchandise varies, but they are run by aging gay men and crabby old women, and the scent of an antique shop is always three parts dust to two parts old wood. The only difference here is that the AM radios were playing Debbie Gibson instead of Frank Sinatra. (I told you they were stuck in the 80s, remember?) Saw some thrilling art deco glass and metalware, but the downfall of the Argentine economy apparently had not impacted ziggurat-style bar accessories. AR$800 for a decanter? Seriously?

Afterwards, I took the subte back to Microcentro for my tour of Teatro Colon. Completed in 1908, the theater (and the tour) couldn't be more different than the Guthrie, where I work. The opera house is a grand, beaux-arts gem. Its marbled entrance hall is clearly intended to impress visitors (even though the guide pointed out where the Italian marble stopped and the faux-finished plaster began). The auditorium is a vast horseshoe with seven levels and a capacity of 3,000, and it is spectacular in a moody, dignified way. The seven meter wide chandelier has 700 bulbs, and it is constructed so that muscians and sound effects technicians can hide within it for celestial sounds during performances. Rehearsal rooms and workshops were in the basement and under Avenida Nueve de Julio, and they were dark and fusty. These subterranean accommodations made me appreciate anew Jean Nouvel's innovations at the Guthrie.

Despite the ugly Americans on my tour and the charming bilingual guide, I still haven't had much opportunity to converse with anyone here. Traveling alone without sufficient Spanish skills has made this a more internal vacation than anticipated. It's all about the inner monologue. So I have tried to make the most of it and shake loose the residue of life that bogs down my psyche, from my father's condemnation to the last two years of absolutely horrendous dating experiences.

Even so, if one sat next to me, I think I would leap on an English-speaker like a junkie on a kilo of H.

Argentina - Part 4

October 3, 2006

I must have an easy-to-please palate. Sitting in Vintage Motor Bar, a swank, loft-style restaurant in San Telmo, I would have sworn that my caprese salad was the best I'd ever had. Doused in flavorful olive oil, the mozzerella was golden and dense; the tomatoes and basil, colorful and fresh. A pot of garlicky, buttery, herbed spread accompanied my crusty rolls. I felt confident I would like Argentina.

Only two other tables were occupied. At one, secluded by a glass partition, sat two fashionable women. Like me, they had a window facing Defensa. Two men sat at the rear, near a giant video screen and what looked like a stage for bands or perhaps a raised dance floor. This place was probably more lively after dark. My entree arrived, a rougher cut of beef than last night's sublimity, but it sat in a flavorful wine sauce and a side of French fries. Delicious.

The day had been a linguistic challenge. No one so far had spoken English. I made do with rudimentary phrases and the kind of gesticulating that helps me win games of Taboo. I marveled at how much I was able to read, yet how little I could comprehend when spoken. I guess I recognized the Latinate roots in writing, and the Argentine pronunciation definitely differed from my "Learn Spanish in Your Car" CD. I mean, come on. "Buenos dias" is a gimme. But no, they say, "Buen dia" here. When your sure thing isn't, it kind of throws you off.

I had intended to start the day with some quiet prayer at the national cathedral. I set out on foot down Corrientes, turning left to go through Plaza San Martin. Although I photographed the massive monument to the Liberator there, I was most captivated by the off-leash dog park. Dozens of dogs -- many breeds I had never seen before -- roamed the enclosure. Only three or four people stood watch. I came to realize that these were dog walkers, who sometimes led as many as 15 canines at a time through the crowded streets to get to a park like this. While I hadn't seen a dog all day yesterday, today they were abundant, and most of them had been strays. I marveled at how they navigated the busy intersections and ducked under fences or park gates, but it made me sad to see them, dirty and alone, looking for food.

After wandering for a LONG time, even asking for assistance at a tourist information kiosk, I simply could not find the Cathedral. This baffled me, because on the map they gave me at the kiosk, it looked like it occupied four city blocks. I had gone up and down each of the streets with no luck. Instead, I came upon the Basilica of Our Lady of Mercy, and I stopped there for my morning oracion. This was a charming baroque church -- as I would later learn many of them are! -- and Mozart's Requiem played over the loudspeakers as I entered. Made me think of my dad. I sat down and enjoyed a peaceful, contemplative time.

Still puzzled by my inability to find the cathedral, I kept wandering and found it -- and the enormous Plaza de 25 Mayo -- a few blocks away. The Casa Rosada, or "pink house," is the place where Evita made her speeches from the balcony. I learned that the pink color resulted from a wash made with cow's blood. They really don't let any part of the cow go to waste here. The cathedral itself was a bit of a disappointment -- not nearly as gargantuan as it appeared on the map, it struck me as sort of a knock-off of the Madeline in Paris, with its Greek-revival facade and neoclassic interior. Oh well.