The First of Three Fables

This is peculiar: clearing out years of papers and scribbling, I found something I was challenged to write ages ago by my then husband. He dared me to write a fable. From the notations on the original, it had to be 1964-1966. A different life; a different me; a different writer. I'm going to put it here, and hope that a reader will tell me what this is about. And if I'd be wise to delete it! Here goes...

In a land of many shadows stood a town of many walls. The walls were built of violet colored stones and the foundations were of white marble. The roadways of the town were on top of the walls. The people lived in houses that stood between the walls, and one house did not face another. Doors and windows opened to the walls. The people strolled their roadways with pride. The high walls, the low walls of violet colored stones with white marble foundations crossed each other and crossed each other. The people were proud.

The wall of gray fieldstone was old. No one walked on that one except Ahni. Ahni was the little boy who everyone knew was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. Ahni would sit on the old gray wall and look out over the meadow of golden grass to the distant blue mountain. Beyond that mountain lay the distant places. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow. He was watching for the stranger who the birds said would come. Every day Ahni would watch. The people would look across the many walls and see him there and they would laugh, strolling the violet roadways with pride. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow of golden grass.

One day as the people strolled and Ahni watched, he saw a figure moving through the meadow. The stranger had come! Ahni called to the birds and they flew across the orange morning to greet the comer. Ahni recognized him, because it was himself-to-be who came. The stranger stood in the meadow and called to the old men. His voice reached them in tones of whispered words. The old men hurried along the old, gray wall to see the stranger in the field. They didn't see that it was Ahni-to-be. They only saw the stranger's walking stick with the white marble handle. They were filled with desire to posses one so lovely. Their old marred hands curved for such a handle on such a walking stick. The only marble in the town lay beneath the walls of violet stones. The old men ached for the marble; wept for the marble. But they didn't have the strength to tear down the walls.

Ahni was young and strong. He was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. So Ahni tore down the walls, stone by stone....stone by stone. This frightened the people and they hid in their houses. The old men wept and ached for the marble. The stranger waited in the meadow holding his walking stick with patient pride. Ahni tore down the walls. The old men beat at the marble and scraped at twigs. Each old, marred hand shaped a walking stick to match that of the stranger. When they finished their work, the stranger who was Ahni-to-be moved back through the field of golden grass, and the old men followed him. He led them up the distant blue mountain, and they climbed the blue beyond the mountain's height....

The people crept slowly from their houses. The doors of the houses now opened to a neighbor's house. The people walked among the violet stones which lay in great useless heaps upon the ground. The night was coming and the people were afraid. They piled stone upon stone, stone upon stone until new walls were built. Grotesque walls were built because there were no white marble foundations. Walls that could not be traveled upon. Stone upon stone...

The people did not see what Ahni saw: meadows of golden grass lay on all sides of the town, and blue mountains and distant places. The people built their grotesque walls of violet stones without white marble foundations and Ahni crossed the fields of golden grass. The old gray wall stood humbly in the shadows of the town of many walls. And Ahni-who-was sat and watched for the second coming.

THE CATALOG

Do you remember that classic Bette Davis postcard -- the one where she’s holding a needlepoint pillow that reads “old age ain’t for sissies?” Well, I’m no sissy! I have been gallant into my sixties. And I only occasionally check as I leave the ladies’ room to make sure I don’t have toilet paper stuck to my shoes. There are only three things that frighten me about growing older: 1) not being self sufficient; 2) not being self sufficient; 3) the arrival of The Catalog. The Catalog! Just when I’ll think I’ve mastered defiance (per Melanie Griffith); when I’ve found a style reminiscent of ‘40’s movie stars or at the very least -- Golden Girls; when strains of “koo-koo-achoo Mrs. Robinson” still occasionally hum in my inner ego; just when I’ll think I’ve created timelessness through elegance -- it will arrive. Wrapped in brown paper. Ominously nondescript. And the book enclosed will read The Catalog. And only that.

You know what’s inside, don’t you? Those fashions women wear so you’ll know they’re old farts: Polyester print dresses in awkward pastels. Cardigan sweaters that must be ordered a size too small. Dime store brooches you could no longer buy at Woolworth’s, (if there were a Woolworth’s). Coats with slightly natty fur collars. Directions for applying prophetic blue rinse. Eye glass frames with gems and pearl chains. Pink sweat suits with floral jewelry to match.

Well, you know what I mean. You see the ladies on the street. In Boston, Columbus, Chicago, New York -- these gals are not only visible in front of bingo halls. Be honest -- haven’t you wondered how that happens? Didn’t that “look” go out with pin curls and hair rollers in the supermarket? Or can one still see hair rollers in the supermarket? Uh huh -- and you’ve said to yourself, “Where do they get those clothes?” Ergo -- The Catalog.

The Catalog. It doesn’t matter if you avoid joining AARP. Or if you never ever play beano. Or sign-up for a Golden Agers’ bus tour of autumn leaves in Vermont. You can evade lunch specials at Grant’s or Denny's and always pay full price on the subway and never go to the shopping mall on Wednesdays. Someday that nondescript brown paper envelope will arrive. You can move without a forwarding address; get medical referrals from Phyllis Diller; make biannual trips to Eden Rock. It will arrive. You’ll put it in the toss-away pile and feel safe because you’ve committed Deepak Chopra to memory. But curiosity will be too much for you. You’ll open it. And no doubt, you’ll laugh. “No way I’m gonna be caught dead in this stuff.” But The Catalog defies trash collecting or recycling. One thing -- one small item will seem “not so bad” and you’ll hang onto The Catalog because maybe you’ll order that one small item -- and then before you realize it, you have a list and the next thing you know -- well..... It will arrive as surely as hot flashes and gray roots and yellow toe nails. What ever you do -- DON’T OPEN IT!!

Walk With Me

When we moved into the Corning Street house in Beverly Massachusetts 40 years ago, I believed that I had come home, that I would plant roots there and grow like an oak forever.  It didn't work out that way.  After 13 years there, I was between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and I moved to Boston neighborhoods -- spending 15 years in the city. Then I found myself back in Beverly -- for a four year event -- before moving to the New York City area for four and a half years.  Now, like a weed, I'm back in Beverly.  Unfinished business, no doubt.  The universe works that way.  

Beverly didn't impress me when I returned this time; I've felt that the community was avoiding its potential.  Lots of second hand shops; an inordinate number of Dunkin' Donut stores and pizza restaurants and bars.  Even with the presence of the Montserrat School of Art in the center of the city, Beverly doesn't boast an art center or even a small art museum or a palpable historic presence as do so many of the neighboring towns.  Some really good restaurants have opened here.  The in-town area no longer has a really good market.  There is, of course, glorious coastline and some fine parks.  And gorgeous big houses along the coast up through Beverly Farms.  But something missing for me.  I went to look for it.  

I walked to the pier which people don't seem to notice much.  And from there I explored the earliest Beverly streets.  Feeling immediately the quiet -- not that Beverly is hustle and bustle ; lots of traffic drives through its two main streets causing the din.  If, on the weekends -- you want to stroll among others -- you need to go to Salem or Newburyport or other towns where tourists walk the streets as well as residents and neighbors.  The area closest to the marina, known as Fish Flake Hill, was undoubtedly settled first.  And the charm of these streets, the feeling of neighborhood and neighbors -- well, walk with me for a moment.  Let me know what you think.     

The Beverly marina and pier. Front Street begins with a charming antique shop.             

History is evident everywhere in this town within the city.

             Looking down Cottage Lane.

I didn't recall the "Furniture Institute" on Water Street. Or the 

little beach at the end of the lane.

Out of the Blue

I did this rather peculiar thing recently: I joined Facebook. I did it for one reason: I had no other way to get messages to my almost 20 year old granddaughter. It didn't quite accomplish that. Nonetheless, it's been a rather interesting journey. At first there was a great welcoming clamour from my kids. Then mutual friends gathered around. Then, out of the blue, people I never thought I'd meet again. With a few folks, I walked around for a couple of days trying to place the name, the face, something -- without saying "who the hell are you?" Gratefully, I'd eventually remember them in my old mental movies so I could be genuine in my response.
I don't much like the yik-yak. Just posting something without really having anything to say. So a few days ago I did a search for people I attended high school with. (Not my favorite four years, but the search was amusing.) I contacted a few of the women whose names I
recognized. They didn't respond. Maybe they weren't who I thought they were. Maybe they were! I contacted a couple of guys who don't really remember me, but responded anyway and we've been typing to each other. There are three of us now who can share the delightful memory of being at the printer's with our high school newspaper when the Brooklyn Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. These folks have many of the same memories, but can't really see me in their look-back. I don't care. It's great to connect with people who came from the same world; who know the Brooklyn that's been lost in time. But it would be such fun, I think, to find someone from long ago who does remember me and is glad to have found me -- and perhaps will unwittingly remind me of who I was then. It's very possible I've been the invisible traveler for a very long time.
Most folks will send me a thumbnail sketch of their lives and I'll reciprocate or send them the url to this blog. Then, as though we were strolling at a cocktail party, they move on to the next discovery or to engage in the yik-yak. Facebook is sort of like an old fashioned cocktail party. People are there mostly to be seen. And once you notice them they scurry away to make another entrance or impression. I never liked cocktail parties for that reason; I was never very good at them. I suppose I've always wanted more notice than that. You know, drop by for a 30 year weekend. We search always for our real identities, believing we'll discover ourselves in someone else. While I was in Italy, traveling alone, I couldn't help being who I am. There was no one with me to require me to be in a particular role. That's what happens in the familiar -- we walk in and out of various roles, characters, personna. But being far away, being alone, encountering new places and faces, sounds, smells..... one relaxes into ones self. When we come back, it's not always the place we've visited that we miss. It's ourselves in that place. I liked who I was there.
I've heard folks on National Public Radio talk about net-working on Facebook; promoting their work or themselves. I don't really see how one would do that. I'm getting better at dealing with the simpler Facebook environment. I don't hang out there; I drop in to say hello. If there's too much yik-yak, I leave. If there's someone there who wants to talk, we take it into another room. I don't think I've introduced the Mickey I met in Italy. Maybe it's not possible in a room filled with people all talking at once. But it's fun to drop in at the party, see what's shaking, and -- maybe -- run into a buddy from a long time ago.

The Invisible Traveler: Venezia

I have been in love with Venice for so long. Long before I actually went there on Pete's Trip. Eleven years ago, when Jamie and I arrived in Venice I just sobbed. I vowed not to do that this time. I welled up but the rude officials at the Vaporetto (the ferries) helped me to hold back. My first impressions after so many years: huge crowds for March; graffitti, litter, artisan shops replaced by big names -- Guess, Timberlane, Disney, Gucci, Burger King, etc. etc. But I am here -- older; a bit worse for wear. And so is Venice. The power of place: places that we belong to, recognize; that touch something in us -- awake something in us. Well. My hotel was lovely; the room was charming (the TV is behind the mirror on the dressing table-- you turn on the TV and see it through the mirror); and dear Jamie had a bouquet of yellow roses waiting for me. I lost it. Had one helluva good cry.
I walked out looking for the familiar. I found the hotel where Jamie and I stayed on our 1998 trip. Not remembering the name
of the hotel or the street, I walked right there. I found that amazing, since I can't remember yesterday's breakfast. Also found my way to the "Crazy bar" which was our favorite lunch spot. I looked for the Trattoria alla Madonna, but though the signs for it were there in the Rialto, I couldn't find the restaurant. I walked and walked the rest of the day. Venice is a
great place for getting lost. I did quite a bit of that my first afternoon.
All the eateries looked like tourist traps to me, so I wound up with an espresso and pastry for supper. I hope I live long enough to visit Venice again in like November or late October. To see it when mostly residents are there and not visitors. On Thursday I walked to Teatro La Fenice -- La Fenice means the phoenix; and like the phoenix this theatre has risen from its ashes three times -- having burned to the ground three times. There wasn't a production while I was there, but one could tour the theatre with an audio tour. So I did. Spectacular theatre. I sat in the Royal Box and watched the stage hands working on the flies. Then I walked to the Ghetto Nuovo, through a part of Venice that had few tourists roaming about. People shopping in a mini- super- market (is that an oxy- moron?) Kids coming from schools; women shouting to each other across the courtyards. An intimacy. The Ghetto is stark and filled with ghosts. This hasn't changed. I crossed the Accademia Bridge to visit the Peggy Guggenheim Museum. I love the sculpture garden there. One passes lots of unwelcome art along the way, as you can see from the photo to your right.
For supper I found a Venetian style Bar (their word for cafe) where I had some lovely soup and red wine and a salad. Then I treated me to an espresso and strudel at a pasteriere in Campo San Luca. I strolled through San Marco. Orchestras were playing albeit the very chilly night.
It was Friday too quickly. The week went too quickly. I took the Vaporetta to the station where I had seen an "Italian Barbie;" well not really a Barbie but like that, dressed for an opera! I got it for Keira. Then I took the boat to the Rialto and did the rest of my shopping. Not too much buying going on from me -- didn't budget it in. Dropped off the loot and walked again across the Accademia Bridge to visit Campo San Barnabas, where all of this romance with Venice began for me back in the 1950's with Kate Hepburn and Rossano Brazzi in Summertime. Kate falls into the canal at Campo Barnabas attempting to photograph Brazzi's glass/antique shop. On our trip in 1998, Jamie and I would spend each evening strolling Venice with Gelato in hand searching for the Campo. We found it our last night. The shops boarded up; the old church holding only Sunday mass; a few elderly gents hanging out in the courtyard; the old coffee shop the only place open there. Deserted; quiet; clean. No more. Campo Barnabas has been turned into a destination by the Venice tourist office which toted out Kate and Rossano for additional revenue. The church has exhibits; gelato shops are there; tacky tourist shops; tables and chairs in the courtyard. Litter. Something lost. Change can't be stopped.
On my way back from San Barnabas I saw a toy shop with a little rag doll in the window. It's an Italian made favorite called "My Doll," and can be purchased with a full wardrobe. I have a small collection of rag dolls so went in to see it I bought myself a red-headed reminiscence of Raggedy Ann. As I walked away with my treasure, I remembered an early family trip when I was perhaps 8 or 9; I felt lonely on the trip and my dad bought me a little red headed rag doll at a souvenir shop. I called it Mopsy. I still have Mopsy. Had I just had a little-girl-moment? And another Mopsy? We don't ever really grow up. I walked through San Marco; went to the little bar for pasta and wine. And another turn around my favorite places. Then I went back to the hotel to pack up. In the morning, I took the boat to the airport where everything went very smoothly and easily. The flight to Paris was fine. I still had to walk the 3/4 mile trek to
I
the next terminal in Paris, but no flights were missed. And the seats were more comfortable and a young man of 13 from the Brookwood School charmed me all the way to Boston.
You know what was best about being away? Just being away. Seeing new things; relying on me. Not having to deal with the daily creaking of my daily world. Yes, it's hard to come back. But I was so glad to hold little Keira again and to see her face when she opened the box with the Italian Barbie and said -- "She's GORGEOUS!" I hope, I pray, I invite the universe to be good to me and allow me another trip next year, perhaps to Provence. I've never been to Provence. In the meantime, color me happy!

The Invisible Traveler: Firenze

23 March 2009 – Happy Birthday to me!!! It felt like my birthday when the train pulled out of Roma Termini. The antiquities of the city are heart-stopping. It is not, however, the Rome of the 1950’s movies. I knew that, of course; I didn’t expect it to be. But, yeah, I wanted it to be. It would be unfair to judge it in any way having walked a city for only 4 or 5 hours. Maybe I’ll get back there again. But this day the scenery from the train on route to Florence was lovely; green showing across the farms; white and yellow flowers blooming; a cherry tree here and there. Mountains rising on the horizon. Lambs grazing. I hope that I’ll get to tour Tuscany one day soon. I felt suddenly in need of the pastorale. Not today. I arrived in Firenze and followed the directions to the hotel received earlier. I was very glad it was daylight. Pretty seedy, and a bit scary. A man on a scooter (they are all mostly on scooters) directed me to The Centrale. It’s a large, old building. The hotel is on the second floor. The elevator is a one-person-thing. I’m not good at elevators, never mind one-person-things. So I schlepped my suitcase up the stone steps (very far up) to what I figured was the second floor. In Italy, however, there is the ground floor (zero) then primo, THEN seconda. I interject here that I am in damn good shape for an old lady – I was still breathing after the second steep flight! The room was nice; the folks were nice. I dropped my stuff, and headed out. I did ask the gal at the desk which way to go to avoid the scary stuff (I didn’t really put it that way) and so I turned toward the opposite direction and was face to face with the Duomo – the glorious cathedral. (What a great hotel!!) I have no idea how many miles I walked. Firenze is a great city for walking. It’s small but packed with ancient history, interrupted by the most expensive high fashion shops the world offers: Pucci, Gucci, Ferragamo, Armani, Gigli, Prada, and on and on. I visited Piazza Santa Maria Novella where the glorious church is being repaired. And Palazzo Vecchio which overlooks Piazza della Signoria. Every piazza is like a sculpture garden. A charming carousel stands near the archway in the Piazza della Repubblica. Walking along and suddenly a carousel! No, I’m sad to say, I didn’t ride it.

When I couldn’t walk anymore I found a small place for supper. Then I walked some more. Lots and lots of teenagers strolling around, seemingly on tour with school personnel. Maybe it was spring break or the like in Italy. On Tuesday I walked early to the Uffizzi. I had purchased my ticket on-line so I would be sure to get in. I think the most beautiful place I saw in Florence is the path along the Arno River from the Uffizzi to the Ponte Vecchio, the only medieval bridge to survive WW II bombings. The view from there, of the bridge, the buildings across the way – heartbreakingly beautiful. Glitzy shops line the bridge, but right before itI found a little, classic stationary shop called Signum. I bought a few gifts there. Had to drag myself away. I walked the Uffizzi for hours; how fabulous to see “live” the paintings I’ve admired in print for so long.

I returned to the hotel to change shoes, drop off purchases and grab my umbrella. It poured all afternoon. San Marco was closed; it being Tuesday. There is a conspiracy of Tuesdays in Italy. Suddenly a shop or museum or café will be closed because it’s Tuesday. ??? I hid out in a bar (Italy’s name for café) with espresso and panini, then grabbed my umbrella and continue to walk the city. For dinner I went to Giannino’s – recommended by the host of the hotel. Very nice. One of the wait staff was much concerned that I was alone. I explained my trip and my birthday event. For this I received hugs and kisses on both cheeks and offers for me to stay and drink liquer. I declined with abundant thanks. (I’d had my wine with dinner; I don’t do more than that at one sitting.) Spirits lifted, I bought a berry tart (tiny one) at a Patisserie and took it back to the hotel. I hadn’t scratched the surface of Florence. But I had breathed it in. And how could I be sad to leave? I was going to Venice in the morning.

The Invisible Traveler: Roma

There are three things I learned on my solo trip to Italy; well, at least three.(we'll began there.) Never change planes through Paris (choose Amsterdam instead); never take advice from leggy, red-headed American girls while traveling abroad; and a woman of a certain age traveling alone is invisible. Explanation: Clea and Keira drove me to Logan airport. Easy. I had checked in on-line and printed my boarding pass. Very easy. I was in a very short line, checked my small suitcase, passed muster with all documents, accomplished security in less than 10 minutes, and didn't spend any money in the duty free shops while waiting for the plane. Pretty good so far! Air France left on time. I had an aisle seat. Gratefully. Unless one was 4 feet 9 inches or less, one did not fit properly into the seats. Consequently, the trip was accompanied by moaning sounds from all packed into coach. My new iPod Touch has a solitaire game on it and I was occupied for the next six hours. I am also a valium flier. 'Nuf said. We arrived in Paris at 6:00 am. (We, of course, thought it was midnight, which--pre-adjustment--it was.) Let the games begin!! To connect with our next flight (lots of folks were doing this), we had to walk to another terminal. No shuttle buses or vans or scooters. I swear it was easily 3/4 of a mile. When we finally got to the next gate area, we needed to go through passport check. Only one airport employee was there to do this for the 300+ folks trying to make flight connections. Well, it was 6:00 in the morning. An ungodly hour to be at work in Paris. All but a handful of folks missed their flights. Including me. So we raced each other to the nearest counter. No airport personnel had arrived there either. It's now 7:30 a.m. local time. All the suits in the line whipped out cell phones and made outraged phone calls. An attendant finally showed up; I convinced her to get me a seat on the 9:45 to Rome. She did. I think I was quite pathetic. I took another valium and flew to Rome. At the airport in Rome: it seemed my suitcase had been misplaced. We call it lost when we are panicked, which I was. A couple of hours later, my suitcase showed up. ??? I made it to the station connected to the airport to take the train to Roma Termini -- the center of the city. Appearing a bit confused, this tall, red-headed American girl said follow me, I'm going there. I did. She of course went first, and purchased an array of tickets that resembled a tour. The train was in the station. She, of course, made that train. Myself and the ten folks behind me in queue, waited another half hour for the next one. I was at this point a bit unnerved. However, I was in Rome. With no idea how to get to the hotel -- the directions given were useless. Wandering around the general vicinity, trying NOT to cry, a gentleman (really!) stopped and asked in Italian if I needed help. I told him yes, but in English. He was instantly delighted and in a charming British accent, directed me to my hotel.

A nice hotel. A nice room. It was around 3:30p.m. I dropped my things, washed up a bit, grabbed my camera, and headed for the Metro. As I exited the subway facing the remarkable Colosseum -- I was appalled at the litter, and hundreds of people partying and a general mess. It was the day of the Rome Marathon!! In New York City, we'd say "Go know!" I stood in the middle of the chaos and laughed and laughed! Then I began my own marathon: snapping pictures, racing from landmark to monument; arriving at the Spanish steps after dark. And the Trevi Fountain after that. It was around 8:00p.m. I'd had it. I found my way back to my hotel, changed clothes, wandered into a little trattoria next door. Ordered a glass of vino rosso, insalata mista, pasta pomedoro. I don't like to eat alone. The place was very small, so I was practically sitting at the same table as a pleasant British couple who- it turned out -- were at the same hotel. We chatted happily through the meal. I thanked them for their good company, returned to the hotel, sent an email to my kids (my iPod Touch wasn't doing its expected thing so I used the hotel computer.) In my room I showered, laid down on the bed, and not feeling tired I was watching Italian TV. The next thing I knew it was 8:30 a.m. Why was I surprised? I hadn't been to bed since Friday night. It was Monday morning. It was my birthday. I was in Rome.

Lesson #4: I knew there'd be more lessons. Don't plan to move on to the next city at mid-day, believing you could get some sight-seeing in before leaving. Either beat it early so you have more time in the next city, or leave later so you can actually sight-see before heading out. I of course hadn't done either. I spent an inordinate amount of time at the Termini; not boring -- people watching; tons of shops; like a mall with a train inside. When I saw my train number appear on the board, I went to it. It said it was going to Venezia. I was going to Firenze. Yet another tall, red-headed American girl with enough luggage to have been moving her residence, looked at my ticket and pointed me to the Florence regional train. I got there; I got on it. Yuk! Fortunately, an attendant looked at my ticket and pointed me back to the Venice train. The Euro Rail. Verrry nice. The first stop would be Florence. I got to it just in time to get on board, find my seat, look out the window as we left Rome and inform the universe that there would be no more shit flying on this trip. It was my birthday. I was on my way to Florence. (That will be my next entry!)