#Travel stories - Meanderings

Worth Repeating

Almost every day there is news of more book bans, challenged books and a host of new education guidelines for books to be used in schools.

Books have been challenged for as long as there are books. The recent spate is so filled with vitriol it boggles the mind.

Also, this weekend I am mourning the loss of two pro-book voices. I do not use the word icon too often given its definition but the retirement of two CBC Radio hosts brought that word to mind. I will sorely miss Eleanor Wachtel host of Writers & Company and Shelagh Rogers host of The Next Chapter. Those two programs are staples in my radio listening. They introduced me to Canadian writers of all genres and to many authors I am sure I would not have met but for their programs and their commitment to showcasing the best literature.

A prized possession is the recording of an interview I arranged with Malcolm Gladwell and Eleanor Wachtel. That recording is now even more precious.

So what’s worth repeating? It is Alone but not Lonely a post I wrote some years ago under the Travel banner extolling the virtues of books as friends. You may read it here: https://paulasmeanderings.com/alone-but-not-lonely/ Or URL https://wp.me/p9c4ml-cY

The Meander: You cannot ever be lonely if you have a book. Keep on reading.

Finding Balance

This post should perhaps be called the joy of travel but I think my experience on my first cruise adventure without my best travel partner, Bert, was more about discovery and finding balance.

When Corbert, Amy and I sat down to discuss my resuming travel and cruising in particular, I was hesitant. Bert and I loved to travel and sometimes took ‘the kids’ with us. We all were bitten by the travel bug so wanting to travel again was almost a given. The hesitancy came from the fact that an important component, Dad, would not be with us.

We chose a South American cruise beginning in Buenos Aires, Argentina and ending in Santiago, Chile. There were a number of factors going for it. I would be able to introduce them to good friends in Buenos Aires and in Chile. In fact, I call them my Argentinean and Chilean families. Also I was going to attend a wedding in Santiago and once again I would be able to get close and personal to penguins.

All went according to plan except for the unsolicited visit from Bert to my birthday lunch in Santiago which I wrote about in my last post https://paulasmeanderings.com/birthday-tremor/.

There are too many highlights to record here but a few do stand out. My friends in Buenos Aires had booked tickets for us to Senor Tango a spectacular tango dinner show. It brought moist eyes as I remembered how Bert wanted so much to see this show with Corbert. The show ends with a stirring rendition of Evita: Don’t Cry for me Argentina, one of Corbert’s favourite songs. When it came up, memory brought a few tears.

It was a pleasure to take them to lunch at the same pub on Stanley in the Falklands where the fish and chips went down easily. On our two previous visits Bert had declared it was the best fish and chips outside England. Then again he said that in Christchurch, New Zealand too!

Sailing around Cape Horn can be hazardous to your health. That passage is one of the roughest you can encounter. As a result, many have been on this same voyage and have never been able to get into Stanley Harbour. The cruise gods must like us as we had smooth sailing.

It was a pleasure to see both Corbert and Amy just taking in the beauty, the history and absorbing the experience as it unfolded.

In Santiago we had our own private tour guide. My friend, Paty, owns her own tour company specializing in the history of her country and wine https://wineweintours.cl/ She is the best.

However, it was the intangible that resonated most for me. Something happened that was unexpected. From the moment I stepped on to the airplane for that first leg of the flight to Argentina I experienced a lightness, a freedom to exhale, to breathe. I did not know I had been holding my breath for 11 years! I did not know how totally consumed I was with a disease, and with the burden of care.

I was so focused on doing and living for two and so angry at a disease that I had lost myself without even being aware of it.

I am weaving a different pattern. It’s not all happy and carefree. It never will be because there’s a part of me that’s missing. Yet there is now room to step away from the disease. I see myself as the conqueror not the vanquished. Alzheimer’s did give me my third age advocacy issue but it will not become the only issue. I now have time for me.

The Meander: Friends call. Travel calls. Cultural pursuits and social events call. Family takes the top position. I am ready to answer. Of course, I’ll be busy because I want to be and as the blog byline states: Standing Still is Not an Option.

Birthday Tremor

I survived the 2010 earthquake in Chile. The epicenter was in Concepcion only 200 kms from Santiago and measured 8.8 there and 8.5 in Santiago where we were spending the winter.

Today, Tuesday March 21, 2023 I woke up early and watched the sun rise over the Andes from my bedroom in Curacavi, Chile. Utter bliss. I am staying with friends. My birthday comes after an Antarctic cruise and before a wedding on Friday.

After breakfast we are going to pick up my friend’s daughter who is flying in from Barcelona where she lives. I have not seen her in almost 12 years. She was no longer a teenager but now an architect and though looking more grown up and more sophisticated seemed the same young girl I knew and loved. It was the same feeling I had when I met her brother and his wife a few days earlier. The years fell away in a long exuberant hug.

Now here we were at grandmother’s home to welcome her and to celebrate my birthday. There were 10 of us, members of what I call my Chilean family. We had demolished the laden table of food in the living room, the appetizers, and were now seated at the dining table also laden with food and making fast work of that too.

Now it was time to sing the birthday song. Of course, we had to have both versions sung in two languages. First up Cumpleaños feliz then Happy Birthday sung loudly and somewhat slightly off key under the influence of a variety of the ever flowing wonderful Chilean wines. Salud!

I smiled my thanks, raised my glass and as I lowered it to the table there was a slight shake. Then another followed which was just a tad harder. Puzzled, I looked up and saw the flowers in a large vase do a slow waltz. OMG an earthquake! Shades of 2010! I grabbed on to the table as if I could stop it from shaking. Please, I do not want to go through another 8.5 earthquake in Chile or anywhere else for that matter, I prayed. A third bigger shake rattled the dishes though not a drop of wine spilled.

I was terrified but aware enough to look around. Hard to believe but here was what registered. One lovely woman used her fork to delicately stab another quail egg and pop it into her mouth. The men were muttering something about ‘only a small tremor, no problem’. I was pleased that my Spanish was working enough to understand it all.

Then another speared a cherry tomato and reached for the crudités with the salmon coloured dip. My beef empanada was cooling on my plate as I refused to let go of the table.

Two men and a woman went to the balcony to see what was happening to the water in the swimming pool. Don’t ask. I didn’t. Grandma stretched out her hand gently stroked my hand.

My dear friend was watching the other vase of flowers doing a lazy dip and fall back salsa routine. Another calmly, nonchalantly sipped his sparkling wine savouring it with obvious pleasure. I looked up at the chandelier and silently begged it not to come tumbling down as the crystals played a tinkling tune as it swayed and shimmied. Then with a last shudder things stopped moving.

It’s over, only a little tremor. No problem. That was the general consensus. They checked into the earthquake website or whatever it is called. The report said an earthquake measuring 5.1 occurred in Santiago and environs.

By that time everyone, except me, was back to eating and drinking. Still tremulous I picked up my empanada again. I was not yet quite back to normal but laughed, perhaps with a bit of hysteria when one suggested that Bert had come to visit and the little tremor was his special birthday greeting to me. That was what I needed to be calmed, helped along in a large part by my third or fourth glass of wine. As the talk turned to Bert I reflected on the many amazing birthdays I have had: bonding with elephants in Sri Lanka; celebrating Nyepi in Bali; going over the Andes from Santiago to Mendoza, Argentina, and so many more!

This little birthday tremor will join the crowd as being very special. I was surrounded by friends, enjoying Chilean wine, eating food that was prepared with love, being serenaded in both Spanish and English versions of the birthday song, and a visit by Bert in the form of an earthquake which somehow was typical and fitting. With a sigh of relief and in serenity I went back to my empanada.

The Meander: The entire trip was a celebration of LIFE.

“For everything that lives is Holy, Life delights in Life”. William Blake

New Year Traditions

Every year for the last 40 or so I exchange special New Year’s Eve greetings with our friend who lives in Spain. Whether by email or telephone we remind each other to eat twelve grapes as the clock chimes the last seconds of the old year. Each grape represents one month of the coming year and eating them guarantees a year of good luck.

In the last few years my Bert and I have not made it to midnight. We will not be under the same roof this year but the tradition continues.

As I closed the usual message I asked my friend if the luck for the twelve months would still be forthcoming if I ate the grapes too early.

In her reply she said she has failed sometimes to eat at the correct hour and also being Scottish she has been her own ‘first footer’ for many years. She then told me of the Irish tradition of holding the front door open to welcome the New Year while simultaneously holding the back door open to bid farewell to the old year. She ended with: “What about those who live in flats without back doors?”

I replied that I had no trouble with doors as my balcony door is actually my back door. My worry would be that the old year may come to a precipitous end because as at stepping out he would fall nine floors down.

I did not want to imagine the splat.

That got me looking at other traditions my Bert and I have enjoyed.

The Netherlands: My Bert was so happy to introduce me to his New Year’s Eve tradition, the most important of which involves food. You are not Dutch if you do not greet the New Year with Oliebollen or oil balls. These are round balls of dough deep fried and dusted with sugar. They taste like doughnuts. If you ever wondered where the hole in doughnuts went before there were Timbits they were oliebollen.

Friends still call to wish us a Happy New Year and proudly announce that they are eating oliebollen.

Of course there are fireworks. So many and so ubiquitous that the news reports on New Year’s Day always include how many have been injured during the night of revelry. It is usually in the hundreds. The injuries run from a slight burn to: “You are lucky you’re not dead!”

Did I tell you that there is a lot of drinking too? That might attest to the fact that each New Year’s Day there is also a Dutch version of Canada’s Polar Bear swims. Only that being Dutch it is everywhere, done by everyone it seems, and having seen bikini clad women and children diving into the North Sea on January 1^st I am in shivering awe even today at the recollection.

Denmark: For four consecutive years my Bert and I spent New Year’s Eve in Denmark. We were most surprised how paltry the meal seems – boiled cod – but that is only the traditional dish. There were enough other surrounding dishes to feed an army in addition to the company of fourteen that gathered in our friends’ home. I asked the whereabouts of the son and was told he was out smashing dishes around the neighbourhood. I heard a smash at the door and was about to open it but was told: “Don’t, the smashing is not over as yet and there might be more being thrown at our door.” Huh!?

Yes, Danes save their broken crockery to throw at the doors of the people they love on New Year’s Eve. The more crockery found on your doorstep, the more love and abundant luck you will have in the coming year.

I love the Danes.

Incidentally, they too have a mad rush of fireworks that start at dark and may continue to the dawn of New Year’s Day. They too may have many a hospital visit after the revelry.

Another reason for a hospital visit is the custom of jumping off the highest point you find at the stroke of midnight. If you are celebrating in a home, that would be the sofa or a chair. If you are at a really fancy party in a posh hotel you will see people jostling to get on a chair or a table, if inebriated, to ‘leap into the New Year’ at the stroke of midnight. One year we grabbed the kids and moved slowly but surely to the huge windows to get an optimal view of the fireworks, as grown men and women leapt from anything elevated. An older couple with a heavy German accent, who were on a similar mission as us said: “Ach! Those are the Danes.” I thought of sprained ankles and more.

Sweden: We gathered with family and friends for an amazing seafood smorgasbord. There is herring prepared in every way imaginable plus lobster, shrimps, oysters. The best china and glassware are unearthed and the table is beautifully decorated.

This is family. This is a communal feast. Everyone has contributed. The home is warm and cozy and then comes the main tradition: You must light the fireworks or go to the neighbourhood park, Town Hall or wherever you go to watch the fireworks as long as it is outdoors!

Note that Swedes are outdoorsy types and that for most of the year they live, if not in the dark then in a sort of twilight. Being outdoors in the cold is normal. We Canadians can relate.

At midnight you hug every single person in the room. I like that!

Then we bundle up, children and all. I am so swaddled I look like the Goodyear blimp. I stand in snow up to my knees trying to stamp my feet which I cannot feel; my teeth are chattering; I shiver under the layers of clothing.

The fireworks are wonderful. For a moment I cheer, and stamp. I ooh and aah, I think, as I am too cold to know for sure.

We trudge back inside. I pour myself a large cognac and curl up in a corner with an afghan. What a wonderful night.

The following year we invite our niece and husband to accompany us to the New Year’s Eve party at the posh hotel in Copenhagen. The headline band was Boney M. Yes!

Jamaica: Yeah mon! What excitement the holiday season brings. The ‘clean-up’ for Christmas begins December 1^st then right after comes a New Year tradition – the laundry. You must not have any dirty clothes in your home to greet the New Year.

The New Year’s Eve ball is a must. If you can afford it you go to a Ball dressed to the nines. You must choose your venue early as all hotels, inns, large and small entertainment venues are fully booked weeks in advance. If you cannot afford the gala events then the parties happen in every place imaginable including great house parties. You party no matter your circumstances.

Watch Night Service is another must do. Jamaica has the greatest number of churches per capita in the world. We are a religious people. Greeting the New Year in church is not optional for the vast majority.

Fireworks displays run the gamut from playing with fire crackers and ‘star lights’ to the big display in Kingston Harbour. This harbour is the seventh largest natural deep sea harbour of the world and on New Year’s Eve it becomes a pyrotechnic wonder on land, sea and air.

Not to be left out, we also do a swim. Polar Bear it is not! Families and friends go to the beach on New Year’s Day and wash away the old year. Ah, to be at the beach and splashing in the azure waters of the warm Caribbean Sea on New Year’s Day.

The Meander: I must confess that for a few years I went to a party, left and rushed to put on my choir robe for the Watch Night Service, quickly disrobe at its conclusion and went right back to the party. I know a few friends reading this did exactly the same. Cheers!

Channeling Jessye Norman

On hearing the news of Jessye Norman’s death I experienced a soft waft of regret similar to other such news of the passing of great women and men whom I admired.

But there was something a little more for this passing.

I love music, all kinds of music and among my fondest memories is my grandmother and the 78 recording of Marian Anderson singing Ave Maria. Her voice came from a gramophone record player with the name His Master’s Voice written on the case. Here was my introduction to classical operatic singing.

Since my grandmother was a highly religious woman and a church organist to boot I thought His Master’s Voice was coming straight from the Master himself, God; that if I could somehow get my voice onto the black disk turning on the gramophone I would begin to sound just like that.

I first met Jessie Norman through a televised BBC performance. Just one look was all it took for me to fall in love. The majesty, the presence, the grandeur, and then THAT VOICE!

Fast forward many years later and Bert and I had the privilege of attending a Jessie Norman concert with friends in Philadelphia. There was thunderous applause at the dramatic entrance. At the end there was a moment of complete silence before the audience stood giving repeated ovations. We had been transported and needed that moment to regroup.

Later still I was to work with a colleague who was actually a friend of Jessye Norman. He was a gentle soul who gave me the ultimate compliment. He told me I resembled Jessye Norman whenever I wore my hair up. The ‘librarian’s bun’ became my ‘Jessye Norman do’.

As soon as I walked in he would exclaim: “Here comes Jessye Norman.” I would laugh but I was immensely flattered too.

Then the ultimate Jessie Norman life experience occurred far from home. My Bert and I were visiting his brother and a favourite niece and her family in Sweden.

Alcohol is very expensive in Sweden but cheap in Denmark. It is normal to see many Swedes crossing from Helsingborg, Sweden to Helsingor (Elsinore), Denmark a 20 minute ferry ride to pick up a supply of alcohol.

We decided to do the alcohol run accompanied by our niece and her husband. It was a simple plan. We would leave early, take the ferry over to Helsingor/Elsinore, have lunch there, go buy booze and get a ferry back.

Of course, I had to make the trip just a little bit more complicated.

Although we had been to Sweden and taken this ferry ride many times we had never visited Kronborg Castle, a major tourist attraction in Helsingor. This literature student was going to correct that. Kronborg Castle in Helsingor is Elsinore Castle. Elsinore is the anglicized version of Helsingor and the home of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Here was my chance to walk in Hamlet’s footsteps. Who knows, perhaps I would find a secluded rampart to quietly recite Hamlet’s soliloquy: “To be or not to be…” NOT!

Everyone agreed we would add a visit to Kronborg Castle.

We were standing on the ramparts looking over the moat on three sides of the castle when we noticed a Danish family in close but animated conversation looking over to our small group. There was a mother and father, two children and two more adults all talking with an air of excitement, all looking over at us.

Finally, they approached and the man said: “Excuse me. We are wondering if you are Jessye Norman.” I was flabbergasted. For a moment I had no words. I am sure I stuttered as I explained I was not but was immensely flattered and considered it a special compliment. I think I babbled.

The girl said she thought I was Ms. Norman as I resembled her. Then she told me they had gone to her concert that weekend in Copenhagen.

I told them I was a fan and we had a brief conversation before parting. I walked on air the rest of the day.

That incident came immediately to mind when I heard of Jessye Norman’s passing.

I have been listening to her and have been grateful to an email buddy who sent me a playlist of her recordings and the BBC’s Hard Talk interview.

I have been overdosing on all things Jessie Norman and decided to share my Bert’s favourite song Ave Maria with him. So with the help of You Tube we listened together. He leaned forward to make the image clearer.

As Jessie Norman breathed the last notes, my Bert looked up, smiled at me and said: “She looks like you.”

Well, case closed.

Here was another moment of joy. My heart soared.

The meander: I have just played the CD Spirituals in Concert with Jessye Norman and Kathleen Battle. I looked at the cover photo and with a bit of ego I thought well, maybe a little. Then, as I listened to the singing, my soul was lifted. I breathed. Music will do that to you.

RIP Jessie Norman. Your voice was indeed a heavenly gift.

The Dorians

Among the pleasures of travelling are meeting new people, seeing new sites, speaking in a different language or trying to do so, eating new and interesting delicacies, daring to do.

My Bert and I have made some wonderful friends from our years of travelling and we have mingled with some very interesting characters.

Dorians refer to two such fascinating persons. It is not their real name but the characteristics they show put them in this exclusive category.

My first Dorian I met on The QEII, that venerable former flagship of the Cunard Line. It is now sitting at a dock in Dubai awaiting a retrofit into a new seven star hotel. A rebirth I may not live to see as plans are on hold as the owners are either stressed for cash and/or courting investors for the project.

On a cruise ship, or any ship for that matter, the Captain is the boss, the head honcho, a veritable god of all he surveys. We passengers may be paying his salary but on board his or her vessel we are mere peons that must obey all orders of the great master.

We were on a world tour. We would be spending 115 days on board the QEII. We would experience two such exalted personnel, as we knew from experience that the Captain we meet on boarding the ship in New York would change places with another Captain in Sydney, Australia.

It was the Captain’s Welcome party. We were in line for the official introduction to the Master of the ship. The hostesses went down the line, asked your name(s), then you would be presented by name to his majestic awesomeness.

Remember this is the QEII. Pomp and circumstance is a hallmark. The British are champions at this.

It is our turn. I look into this minor god and I try not to do a double take as I see before me a compact man, of medium height. He had dark hair, blue eyes, was polished and adorned with so many medals and gold braid that there was a luminescent halo surrounding his entire frame.

All well and good but what distracted me was that he looked as if he could be my son. How could one so young be Captain of this great ship?

He extended his hand said: “Welcome on board.” I could not help it I looked right into his eyes and said: “Where do you keep your picture.” He raised one eyebrow and with a calm insouciance and a devilish smile said: “It will be up to you to find it, but I assure you it will look the same.” We laughed.

For the rest of his time on board it was our running joke. There were plenty of opportunities to carry it on because as world cruisers the cocktail parties, dinners and opportunities to mingle with the Captain and ship’s officers were twice as many as for those who were doing cruise segments only.

When he had his farewell dinner we greeted each with slight regret that our inside joke was over. In addition to the usual pat phrases of farewell he said: “You will have to ask Oscar where I keep the portrait.” My answer: “I will keep on looking. Oscar is too Wilde for me.” There were quite a few in hearing distance who wondered what the heck we were talking about.

My next Dorian was again the boss of the luxury sailing yacht the Wind Surf. This luxury cruiser was tiny compared to the QEll but no less grand with an intimate, relaxed, and marvelous ambiance.

Prior to the official formal affair we were invited to a meet and greet hosted by the cruise director. It would be an introduction to Windstar Cruises and this particular yacht.

He was telling us about the sails being raised or lowered accompanied by music when a young man dressed in casual sailor’s whites came by. Immediately the cruise director stopped his spiel, went over to the young man and said something to him. He came back to the microphone and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen may I present the Master, Captain of our vessel.” Well knock me down with a feather. Master? Captain? The fellow behind me said: “They are hiring babies now.”

The Master took the microphone and his first words were: “First let me answer the question you all have in mind. Yes, I am old enough to Captain this yacht.” Everyone laughed. You could see some of us including Bert trying to see the stripes to confirm he really was the Captain. Another Dorian!

That night at the formal Captain’s welcome dinner the young fellow was resplendent in his dress uniform, medals flashing, epaulettes set just so. I looked at him and sighed. Despite his assurance he still looked too young to be our Captain. Should I go looking for another hidden picture that was aging sight unseen?

I think all 295 passengers were on deck as our Captain docked at Santorini. He had to parallel park our vessel in between two much larger vessels. We were holding our breaths in trepidation when we saw where he had to go. We wondered if we should go for our life jackets.

He made it in one maneuver. He lined up the yacht perfectly in the middle. He erased any doubts that were left of his capabilities. A spontaneous cheer went up.

The Meander: My Bert and I have been to all corners of the world. We have seen the touristy sites and wandered along paths less travelled. We have been blessed. I have so many travel stories but the ones that stay uppermost are the ones about the people we have met. The Dorians are etched on the canvass of my mind.

Deck Encounter

We sat on deck, looking out on a calm sea that shimmered in the moonlight.

We were six, two couples plus a mother and adult son. We had met on a cruise eight years before and we had been travelling together ever since.

We were a compatible lot and conversation never lagged.

This night was the Captain’s welcome reception and dinner. We had all dressed up, joined the line to meet the Captain, drank the champagne and had a very nice dinner.

We sighed in contentment.

We were rehashing the jokes of the entertainer, a comedian, who was quite good when a young man came in sight. Wow!

He was tall, dark, and handsome with full sensuous lips, deep blue eyes, a high forehead from which his hair fell in soft waves to his shoulders. Yes, all the clichéd descriptions of the hero one could find in Mills and Boon and Harlequin romance novels were rolled into one eye-popping package and walking towards us. He was the epitome of male pulchritude.

“Oooh! I would never say no to any request from this one!” Pat remarked sotto voce.

“MOTHER!” exclaimed Francis in such a shocked voice we all burst into laughter.

The young man turned and said: “That must have been a good one.” With uncharacteristic boldness I said: “Come over and join us and we will share it with you.”

“Thanks, I will.” He pulled out a chair came over and said: “Hi, I am Sean.”

We introduced ourselves. Gary, the only smoker in our group had noticed the cigarette case Sean had pocketed before he accepted our invitation. He suggested they have a smoke.

Sean accepted and he and Gary moved closer to the rail and ashtrays. We surmised Sean had come out for air and a smoke before returning to his date/fiancée/wife/partner.

Cigarette done, Penny, Gary’s wife told Sean about our plans to go listen to the Jazz trio in the Piano Bar. She invited him to join us.

There was a slight hesitation before Sean confirmed he was waiting for someone but maybe they would accompany us to the Piano bar also, if we did not mind.

Pat, our master of sotto voce whispered to Penny: “I should have known that someone who looks like that would be not alone.” It was said with such a mixture of regret, desire and a hint of peevishness that Francis uttered a groan.

The conversation flowed and then Sean told us he was waiting for his parents. He explained that they all had early dinner together but his parents liked to go to relax with a cocktail before catching the later show. He was quite happy with that arrangement because then his mother could pretend he did not smoke and he could have a cigarette without her telling him what a nasty habit it was.

“I am with your mother. Gary is the only smoker in our group and he gets the ‘nasty habit’ lecture on a daily basis even from the former smokers here.”

He smiled and said: “Well, then if you tell me not to smoke, I won’t.”

Before I could reply, a door opened and the first people coming from the late show drifted towards our corner. Sean got up, went towards the door and said:”They’re coming.”

He looked downwards, we looked up.

Coming towards us was the most striking couple.

Little people. Very Little People.

Both were resplendent in their formal wear. Both had the biggest smile when they saw Sean. Sean bent down, hugged both and said: “Mum and Dad, I want to introduce you to some people.” They came forward hands held out.

“Hello, I am Mary and this is Hector, my husband. You have met our son Sean. I bet he was out here grabbing a smoke. Nasty habit that.”

How gracious and how adroitly she had put us at ease. Yet, we could not help it; we gaped even as we smiled. I looked up at Sean and looked down at his parents in wonder. I knelt, opened my arms and hugged them. I was immediately embarrassed. I thought I had committed a faux pas that I should not have done that. As usual my Bert came to my rescue as he said: ‘”Don’t mind her. She is a hugger.”

“That she is,” said Penny.

“So are we,” said Hector. He and Mary were so gracious. They hugged back.

The moment passed. We moved to the Piano Bar.

The Meander: I have often said that our travel experiences have been so varied that should I write them all out I would need to create a number of books. One would be about the people we have met. Sean was 6ft 4 inches tall. His Mom was 3ft 8 inches and his dad 3ft 11 inches. They taught us so much!

I will not forget the sight of Sean dancing with his Mum.

We were shipboard companions only and after that just ships that passed in the night. It is often like that, but for a moment in time the stars aligned to hand us a remarkable travel story.

Monuments

A friend sent me a message: “Go to news. Notre Dame is on fire.” I leapt up from the computer and for the next two hours or so I was riveted to the T.V screen as I watched the Cathedral, the heart of Paris burning. I was saddened.

My Bert and I have had the privilege of visiting famous monuments and landmarks around the world. They remain in my memory, in my psyche, and yes in my heart.

On separate occasions I have cried, laughed, cried and laughed at the Berlin Wall. I even own a small piece of it from when it was torn down. My Bert and I raced from Amsterdam to Berlin to witness the ‘unzipping’ of the refurbished Brandenburg Gate by President Bill Clinton.

I got goose bumps the first time I saw Westminster Abbey, The Blue Mosque, The Great Pyramid of Giza, Notre Dame de Paris, The Taj Mahal and so many more. There are entire cities that I consider to be monuments. Jerusalem, London, Paris, Athens, Rome, The Vatican, Amsterdam all come to mind.

Whenever I think of Denmark the small sculpture of The Little Mermaid brings a smile as do the Manneken Pis in Brussels which dates from 1388. They are beloved symbols that give a unique identity to a particular place. They are more than interesting sculptures.

The Christ the Redeemer statue on Corcovado means we are in Rio de Janeiro. Going to the opera at the Sydney Opera house is one bragging right I hold dear. And you know you are in Australia.

As I looked at Notre Dame I was grateful that we had toured it as a couple, as a family, and with travel companions. I wondered if we would live to see the ‘after’ even if only virtually.

As the fire burned my thoughts were turbulent. I was filled with dismay and sadness. I am not Roman Catholic. That did not matter. I am neither a Parisian nor French. That did not matter. I was looking at an iconic symbol. That is what a monument is. A symbol that is universal that can appeal to anyone.

Great literature, art, music, dance, drama, architecture are ways in which we showcase our creativity, share our talents and demonstrate the human need for beauty that transcends the mundane. They speak to the soul. Monumental works like Notre Dame validate that need and give credence to Keats’: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.”

When we toured Notre Dame the fact that it was the keeper of the Crown of Thorns was awe inspiring. I enjoyed seeing the art, the craftsmanship that went into the building but uppermost in my mind was the history. The same words I said then came back to me as I uttered them again: “If only these walls and stones could talk.” Notre Dame burned at the beginning of Holy Week. Ironic, isn’t it?

I wondered if the egotistical Napoleon was turning in his grave recalling his glory when he crowned himself Emperor of France in Notre Dame. He had no great love for either the Pontiff or religiosity so he may have some ambivalence about this destruction. As the spire fell I wondered if all those nobles who travelled past its doors in tumbrels to be guillotined found some macabre similarity to their own fate. They lost their heads and now Notre Dame was losing its own.

As I mourned the passing I wondered if some were cheering that this was a symbol belonging to ‘the other’ not to them. History, literature, religious fervour, art, music, wars, and love are all part of Notre Dame and they were fighting for space in my thoughts as I watched. That is a monument. It means everything to some and something to everyone else. You may be indifferent to it but it cannot be ignored.

The Meander: Over one billion Euros were donated within forty eight hours for the restoration of Notre Dame. Extraordinary! I cannot remember any human disaster that raised so much in so short a time. Hmm…

Experts estimate that it will take up to fifteen years to rebuild Notre Dame. With utter conceit I looked over at my monument, my Bert, and wonder if it will take up to fifteen years for his spire to topple.

Howsoever long it takes, if I am still alive, I will rejoice for one and mourn the other. The Light and dark together as ever.

Time for Sale

I am dreaming. I am in a hurry. There are others also scurrying here and there. I look at my wrist but there is no watch there. I call out that I need to get a watch but they should carry on. I am in a car driving fast down a hill. I pass a large crowd and shout: “I have to buy a watch and time!” I wake up.

The remnant of the dream remains and disturbs. I take a few deep breaths and think how wonderful it would be if one could buy time. Every caregiver would want to be first in line.

The dream has dredged up the watch seller we met in Gibraltar. What a character he was!

His stand was in a prime location. Going or coming you had to walk by that stand. There were all kinds of watches for the amazing sum of ‘$10 dollars each or three for $30!’ he would holler.

It was a bargain and a smile in one short sentence. However, that was not all.

What drew and held a crowd entranced was the non-stop patter of the seller. He had an English accent which I thought was Cockney. I asked him if he was born within the sound of the Bow Bells to which he answered:

“The sound of the bow Bells? Darling, mi pregnant mum was at church and when the darn thing rang she jumped so high that out I popped. I tell you, love you canna get more Cock(pause)ney (wink, wink) than that.” Groans and laughter ensued. It seemed he had an endless number of jokes, sly remarks, double entendres to keep us entertained and buying his watches. Purchasing a cheap watch in Gibraltar suddenly became de rigueur

I bought three watches. My rationale was that as frequent travellers it was good to wear these cheap versions for sightseeing.

The next year we happened to be back in Gibraltar. Our watch seller was at his post. His patter was loud, persuasive and entertaining as usual. He looked out, saw us and shouted: “Aye, there’s mi customer, come back from –where you from mi darling? ‘Canada’ all the way from Canada to buy mi watches. Want another three mi love?”

We walked the main street for a bit and returned just as he was turning over the stand to his son to take a break.

“Good line you use about a returning customer,” I say. He looked at me and said:

“I do remember you. Your husband got in on my act and actually persuaded people to buy the watches telling them the spiel alone was worth the money. Then you bought three watches I am sure you really did not need and for Chrissakes, it is sorta hard for you to disguise yourselves. Stuck in my head is the fun loving, happy, odd couple. Come, have a cuppa and a beer for you my friend?” We comply. Bert won the paying the bill battle.

We are back in Gibraltar. This time I am on a mission to get a good watch. Gibraltar is a duty free port so prices are better here. I am happy with my purchase.

We stop at our favourite cheap watch seller. He hails us again, he tells people to ask us about the fabulous bargains we have made and how we come specifically to Gibraltar to buy his watches. The patter is non-stop as usual and entertaining. He beckons us over and says: “OK, which of these are you getting this year?” “This year, I am not getting any. I just bought a lovely one just down the road.” I point in the direction of the shops. He laughs, tut-tuts, shakes his head, and in a loud voice says:

“Oh, you did, did you? Let me tell you something, darling, you got snookered. I bet you paid more than ten times what my beautiful watches cost! Come here mi luv; let me tell you a little secret. That expensive watch you bought tells exactly the same time as mine.”

Amid the laughter I hear ‘true’, ‘that’s fer sure’. I think Bert and I are laughing the hardest.

It is about five years when we get back to Gibraltar. We make a beeline to our cheap watch vendor. No, I do not need a watch. We just want to say ‘hello’ and listen to the patter. His son is at the stand. Bert asks after his father. He has died. We offer our condolences. We are sad. An errant thought: He ran out of time. He would appreciate it. I bought a watch in his memory and walk on under a suddenly dimmed sky.

The Meander: A thief snatched my watch as we were walking back to our hotel in Santiago, Chile. After the anger, feeling violated and acknowledging with thanks the care of the good Samaritans who came to our aid, I turned to Bert and said: “He will be so disappointed that the ‘gold’ watch is a ten dollar Gibraltar special.” We begin to laugh hysterically.

Our good Samaritans slowly leave and I think they are still debating whether we were happy to be unharmed or that the incident had been so traumatic as to leave us unhinged.

By the way, those Gibraltar specials lasted from 18 months to over five years and kept the same time!

Storytelling in Motion – Bodrum

We flew to Istanbul one week before the cruise began so we could explore that ancient city at leisure. It would be our third exploration but there is so much to see and shopping in the Grand Bazaar deserves a trip in itself. Our hotel surpassed our expectations and then here we were ready to board our luxury yacht.

Yes! As fans of small ship cruising we were about to board a five-mast staysail schooner, one of the largest sailing cruise ships in the world. No, I am not a sailor but that is the description of what would be our floating hotel for the next seven days. The number of passengers on board was a mere 294.

The first exquisite experience was to watch as the computer operated sails were raised with coordinating music. Istanbul slowly faded. We saw other ships and boats but none compared to ours. I knew this cruise would be special

We arrive at Bodrum, the only maiden port for us on the voyage so off we go to explore. I had done my research on Bodrum so my head was filled with Halicarnassus, Herodotus and events that occurred in years that were followed by BC, and The Mausoleum.

I like to think that Bodrum is famous because of ostentatious love. When the Satrap, or ruler, Mausolus died in 353 BC, his wife had an enormous white marble monumental tomb built. The top was a stepped pyramid and was such a wondrous accomplishment that the Greek historian Pliny designated the Mausoleum as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It was designed by the great Ionian architect Pytheos. Not only was it the largest tomb ever built by the ancient Greeks it was also well built as it stood for 19 centuries until an earthquake destroyed it around the 14^th century. Only the massive foundation remains though some artifacts can be viewed inside the Castle of St. Peter.

With my head filled with all this antiquity and the romance of a bygone era, I was so surprised to see the modern, clean city nestled on the sunny bay and surrounded by spectacular scenery at every turn. The only discordant note was the proliferation of vacation villages and timeshares cluttering up the shores. It reminded us of the Costa del Sol. I thought of it as the Marbella of Turkey. Despite this, it still had the ambience of being a step back in time. It would not have surprised me to see Anthony and Cleopatra holding hands and strolling through the Theatre of Ancient Halicarnassus.

Yet the best was yet to come. On arriving back on our yacht we were informed that a dancer, an expert in both the history and art of belly dancing was on board to entertain. We debated going but curiosity won out. There was an introduction and history of the art by an emcee who informed us that the dancer would perform four stories in dance.

Oh, what a treat. This gorgeous Turkish woman came out, gave an elegant bow and the music started. Within a moment we knew we were experiencing something special. This was pure artistry. She was grace incarnate. She moved in fluid, sinuous, sensual patterns, undulating from her toes to the ends of her hair. The tiny musical coins sewn into the costume added to the mystique. The movement of her eyes, the flutter of her lashes and the placement of hands and fingers and the ripple of her undulating torso and hips were all integral to the telling of the tales. We were in awe.

I looked over at the resident dolt, yes, there was one. He had a beer bottle almost at his mouth but he did not take one sip, so enthralled he was. That was the greatest compliment. She danced as if she was engaged in intense communion in a separate interior place. Yet we were totally engaged. Her dancing was a most eloquent language. Mesmerizing.

You know an outstanding performance by what happens when it is over. Here, there was a long moment of complete silence, a collective letting out of breath, and sighs of wonder broken by: “Oh, what a performance.” We rose as one and the sound became a cacophony as we each tried to find the words to articulate our admiration and appreciation of what we had just witnessed.

Nearly every guest had seen belly dancing performances prior to this one but we all agreed that they fell far short. My Bert kept asking: “How did she do that”?” He was not the only one.

The Meander: We try to find pleasure in everyday small miracles. This was a miracle, not so everyday and not so small. My memory is packed with travel miracles.