September 18, 2014


Gary and Michele at Nymphenburg Palace

--You know you’re traveling when your body clock keeps saying it’s time to sleep, it’s time to eat, and the times don’t correspond at all with where you are.

--You know you’re in a foreign country when you go to church and the priest’s reflection is incomprehensible except for the words Palestine, Syria, and Iraq.

--You know you’re in Europe when the hotels, no matter the country, provide French soaps.

--You know you’re in Munich when the bill for an appetizer, side dish and glass of wine for two is 100 euros.

--You know you’re not in Seattle when the bicyclists obey the traffic laws and don’t cross intersections if the light is red.

--You know you’re not in Seattle when it rains, and everyone pulls out an umbrella.

--You know you’re not in any American city when you and your husband can buy a Partner ticket (Partner is the word used in German) and travel all around the city easily. You might get a bit lost when the transfer bus the hotel clerk told you to take is out of service for repairs. Then a lovely German woman, who knows less English than you know German, will somehow figure out what you need and introduce you to the conductor on the next tram. He will then welcome you aboard, and deposit you a few stops later, back on the route you intended all along.  

Entrance to our Hotel

As we edged closer and closer to our trip to Germany and Austria, I kept looking at the map and wondering why I hadn’t included a quick jaunt to Italy in the itinerary. It is just a quick plane hop away. Unlike previous travels, I had spent little time learning a few basics of the language in the country we would visit. Of the few phrases I attempted to learn were, “I am allergic to dairy” and “Where is the bathroom?” I lamented that my Italian would not be useful just as I am becoming courageous enough to simply blurt out Italian and hope it works.

What a joy to arrive in Munich and have the hotel recommend an Italian restaurant nearby. And how comforting to visit La Stanza that evening and discover that everyone there spoke Italian. The food was excellent and I had decided we would return before we even left the restaurant.

It turns out that in Southern Germany, like in England, no one recommends the local cuisine. It is assumed that you will eat the food of other countries. We did have sausages, potato salad and kraut in a beer garden—how could we not? But, for our other meals we ate Italian, Japanese and attempted Indian, but the restaurant was too crowded to accommodate us.

I'm going to stuff my suitcase with German bread
 My favorite meal, at a restaurant near the Schloss-Nymphenburg: an appetizer platter with sausages and mustard, duck with fresh horseradish, a prosciutto-like meat, trout, pickles and (my favorite—where can I get some more?) apple-lard on nutty German bread.

We usually spend time in a city just wandering around and getting a feel for it but this time we only had a few days and played the tourist. We visited museums (with Italian paintings and scientific equipment) went to the Marienplatz to see the glockenspiel dance at noon; and visited the royal palace (an French/Italian wannabe).

The Schloss-Nymphenburg is promoted here as the most beautiful palace in the world (and it might have been—once!); it may be the most enormous palace anywhere, but now it is only a series of palazzos strung together like pearls on a necklace by long hallways of glass and portraits.

Its most significant feature is the Hall of Beauties, thirty-six portraits of beautiful women secured and painted according to the specifications of the ruler. Gary wondered if this was his version of Playboy but I think not. With all the nude women painted on the walls and ceilings, these modest, standard portraits, are something more. I can’t put my finger on it, but I do wonder what his wife must have thought. Did she take another route through the palace so as not to confront the display?   

Quite by accident we went to the palace on the 350th anniversary of its creation. This meant that entrance was free, in exchange for listening to thirty minutes of speeches, and hearing some music. There were actors in Baroque costumes accompanied by medieval musicians. The hall in which the occasion was marked as been restored and future work is anticipated to restore the palace to its former glory.

The most amazing part of the palace is the stables where royal carriages and sleighs have been preserved and displayed. They were beyond description with their gold, and statues, and paintings, and furs, and feathers, and leather, and jewels. A picture will have to suffice, even though the picture cannot capture the splendor and size.

I asked Gary what he thought of Munich and he contributed the following (as well as five of the photos):

Munich is the capital of Bavaria, the southernmost state of Germany—predominantly Catholic, fairly conservative—but welcoming visitors from all over the world. The landscapes are green, the air is fresh and cool, and the cows are all contented.

Heiliggeistkirche Church with Paper Cranes 

August 13, 2014

Persistence Persists

     One hundred years ago a woman Martha Graham described as a “plump little lady with the dynamism of a rocket” founded the Cornish School in Seattle. Today it is a college of the arts, but in its beginnings all ages were nurtured there.

         Nellie Cornish believed that the arts existed best in combination with one another and should not be taught discreetly. She believed exposure to various arts led to greater creativity. Although she was well-connected to classical art figures throughout the United States and Europe she embraced popular theater and even puppetry.

     Shortly before her death in 1956 she collaborated on her autobiography, Miss Aunt Nellie: The Autobiography of Nellie C. Cornish (published by University of Washington Press, Seattle, 1964). In it she describes the ups and downs of her life. From childhood on her fortunes fluctuated and yet she persisted. I cannot help but wonder if the Cornish College of the Arts would exist today had she been a person who accepted defeat. When there was no money, she juggled until times changed. When teachers reneged on commitments, she simply reached into her vast network of acquaintances and found someone else. When one program faltered, she introduced another.

     I suspect part of her tenacity came from the pioneer spirit that was still prevalent in the West
during Nellie’s youth. It may also have been facilitated by the fact that she was not married and could pick up and go to New York or Europe in search of teachers whenever she wished. In the end, though, there just seem to be special people in this world who are never overcome by adversity, people who are guided by dreams that become more important than themselves.

     Cornish College of the Arts still struggles financially—as it always has. It does, however, persist, just as Nellie Cornish would have wished.

July 16, 2014

A Fighting Chance by Elizabeth Warren

Elizabeth Warren’s AFighting Chance is must reading for all American citizens but especially for mothers, for dog lovers, and for anyone who thinks they have gotten a raw deal from those who control this country’s economy. The book is like a rolling ocean wave. It crests and lets you float along, suspended between earth and sky; it drops you unexpectedly, and leaves your eyes wet with tears; then ultimately it washes over you and pulls you under.

The crests of the book are those vignettes that tell Senator Warren’s story. The style is conversational and makes the reader feel like she is sitting at the Senator’s dining room table sharing a beer. Her infectious optimism seeps into the pores and carries her reader along.

The low points as a reader are the stories of the people she has met, the people who are struggling, the people for whom she has so much passion. There are many tears to be shed while reading this book, both for the struggles of those who are hurt by the current direction of the country and for those moments of nobility of human spirit that raise you once again to the crests.

Ultimately, however, this book sucked me in. The arguments are clear and well-reasoned, and Senator Warren’s passion washes over every page. It is hard not to want to march right behind her wherever she goes. 

The only negative with A Fighting Chance is the fact that it was extremely difficult to put down. I had thought that the short, readable sections would make it easy to read piecemeal but the energy and story-telling power of the book made that impossible. Senator Warren, I would have a beer with you any time.

April 27, 2014

Southern European Meditations, Part Six: The Fine Arts

A Singing Culture

One Sunday, we went to a neighborhood church in Spain, to find there were no instruments to accompany the hymns. This was a bit disappointing because the church had a beautiful organ (at least to the eye) that sat untouched. The voices of the congregation, however, made up for the lack of accompaniment. The song leader performed a cappella and the entire congregation sang along—everyone in tune. The biggest surprise was that none of the men or older women dropped down an octave as we hear so often in this country.

Center of the Church

In Spanish cathedrals, music sits in the center of the nave. Two massive organs, each with full ranks

Choir in Cathedral at Seville
of pipes, border a large room, usually with partial walls topped with grates and wrought metal doors. Ornate choir stalls line the room and an antique music stand usually stands in place of prominence. This space almost overpowers the altars in majesty, placing music at the center of worship.

Magic Moments

A Monument to Music
Friends ask me to name my favorite place or moment from the three months we traveled in Southern Europe. There were too many magical moments to choose, but if I were forced to do that, the place I might select is La Palau de la Música Catalana in Barcelona. Experiencing the Palau is perhaps the highlight that calls back to me most often. A building as beautiful as the music it produces dedicated to regional, international, classical and modern music, built to house a choral society rather than an orchestra, combines music, architecture and art in a way that leaves one breathless. (You can read more about this site in my Barcelona blog from November 13, 2013.)

The most magical moment would probably be while we were at lunch one day in Granada. A number of young women lugged large drums past us. I was curious but lunch was delicious, so I did not investigate. A bit later, there was a thunderous rhythmic sound and my curiosity overwhelmed my gustatory pleasure. I raced over to the nearby square where a squad of female drummers were playing extraordinary syncopated rhythms and moving with an energy that belongs only to the young—a spontaneous concert of women strutting as I wish I had had the courage to do when I was their age.

Special Delight: Workshop for Baroque Instruments in Venice (Photo taken through glass)

Living on in Literature

In Lyon a statue of Antoine de St. Exupery carries the inscription, “To forget a friend is sad.” It amazed me that, with all that this author wrote, he is best remembered for The Little Prince, a children’s book.

Saint-Exupery and the Little Prince at Dusk

I wondered what it would be like to be remembered as an author in faraway places long after you are gone. In Sorrento one bookstore has a copy of I Ragazzi di Jo (Jo’s Boys) by Louisa May Alcott.

Another Special Delight: Visiting cities where the old streets of booksellers have been preserved. 

Question: The Seine is lined with bookstalls and art. Does this reflect the values of Parisians or does it reflect what the Parisians believe tourists desire?

Sitting for a Portrait

European museums are filled with portraits and it made me think about the evolution of having one’s image captured. Having a portrait once meant sitting for hours, perhaps days, with an artist copying your features in paints. Later the portrait only required a person to be perfectly still for a short period of time while an image was imprinted on a glass or metal plate by a professional. Kodak film made it possible for the ordinary citizen to take pictures so one only had to ask a friend to take your picture, using the friend’s camera of perhaps your own. (A traveler often asked a complete stranger to take the camera from her neck and take a picture of her, a very trusting act if she has an expensive the camera.) Then the film had to be developed and printed so that you could determine if the print was something you might keep. Sometimes you wished to share the photo and would have additional prints made. Then came digital. The picture could be seen immediately and the photographer could quickly determine whether the portrait needed to be taken again because one’s mouth was open or eyes closed. And then came the phone. Now a photographer lifts the phone out arm’s length and takes her own picture. Is this an improvement or not?

Hope for the World

In Rethymno, Greece, on the island of Crete, the old Venetian armory has been converted into an art gallery.

April 23, 2014

Southern European Meditations, Part Five: Parlez-Vous?


Gaudi curved windows at Casa Battlò
(where we paid Jubilados rate)
No Molestar – for “Do not Disturb”

Jubilados – (as in the Latin, jubilate, for “Rejoice”) used for Retired People
(and thank you to Spain for providing discounts at tourist attractions for American retired people when France, Italy and Greece require you to be a Euro member)

A “Nero”Street 


The guide in Campania kept talking about the “nero” streets. It took me a couple of mental tries before I realized he meant the streets were not very wide. Then he started talking about his “ankle,” and I could make no sense of what he was saying, because neither his ankle nor mine fit the topic. Sensing my confusion, he offered more, “the brother of my mother.”
            I wonder what my Italian words sound like to Italians?


The ubiquitous Italian “va bene” for “everything’s fine” becomes “va bo’” in Neapolitan.


I spent two weeks picking up Spanish phrases and trying to remember the one year of Spanish I took a decade ago. I managed to buy a new blouse and get a pedicure with my limited vocabulary and I was feeling pretty good—until I got to Barcelona. I had no idea they didn’t speak Spanish there. Even the signage is in Catalan and treats Spanish as a second language.
Saint George, Patron Saint of Catalans

March 27, 2014

Southern European Meditations, Part Four: A Catholic Tourist in Spain

Parish Church in Granada (where we attended Mass
The ritual of the Mass in the Catholic Church has a uniformity throughout the world.  The prayers follow in a particular order, and if you are visiting a cathedral you can pop your head into a side chapel and know within a minute exactly where the priest is in the order of the Mass, even if you don’t speak the language. There are, however, a number of variations. Sometimes there are extra prayers, before, during and after Mass; and traditions vary on when to sit, stand, or kneel. Fortunately, nuns in Europe still wear habits and the two or three at every Mass are easily identifiable. So, my mantra was, “Follow the nun.” When she sat or knelt, I followed—a failsafe method should you ever require it.

One of my earliest memories of the churches in Spain (from 1972) is the overwhelming amount
Gilt Under Guard
of gold inside them. On our recent visit the wealth inside the Church was juxtaposed against the beggars sitting outside the church (a sight less visible in the day’s of Franco’s rule). I wonder what Pope Francis has to say about the abundance that is denied the poor. I was also struck by the fact that the bishops sit and kneel on plush cushions, while the congregation sits on hard wooden pews and kneels on unpadded boards.

Columbus with Ferdinand and Isabella
My conscience was pricked on this visit by the numerous statues of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, whose presence is sprinkled throughout Spain’s cities and churches, more than five centuries after their rule. Pope Alexander VI conferred on them the title “Catholic King and Queen” in their lifetime, the assumption being that they were doing God’s work. Today they are still called “the Catholic Monarchs.” When one studies the atrocities they committed, especially the Inquisition, one wonders if that label is one of praise. Because they expelled those of other faiths from the country and segregated those who were not like themselves, I could not help but wonder how much of today’s intolerance between religions can be traced back to them.

Courtyard of a historic Jewish home in Cordoba
The Sephardic Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492. There is some irony in the date, the
same year that Columbus discovered a land that would be built (after initial atrocities to the native populations) on the principle of freedom and inclusion of all. Since our return an Associated Press story reported that the Spanish government is in the process of passing a law that grants Spanish citizenship to descendants of the Jews who were expelled. It cannot repair the damage but does acknowledge a wrongdoing.


Sometimes it’s easier to be Catholic in a foreign country. I can figure out the Scriptures and the Mass prayers from past experience, but the preaching is often beyond my understanding of the language. This means I hear no breaches of history or didactic pronouncements that prickle my sense of the real meaning of Christ’s message. (Gary understands more than I, but I don’t ask him to translate. It’s easier that way.)

From A Catalonian Cave Church