By Susan Middaugh
Our trip to California in July of 2016 began many months before that with some friendly negotiating.
“Where would you like to go?” I asked Jasmine.
“Los Angeles,” my granddaughter replied.
“No,” I said. “There’s very little to see and I’d have to rent a car. How about an inter-generational trip with Road Scholar or Sierra Club? I’m open as to the destination. “
“I’d rather it was just the two of us,” Jasmine said. “How about San Francisco?”
“Great, “ I said. In retrospect, this exchange – setting limits, honest communication — was to become a harbinger for our trip.
While I made our travel reservations, Jasmine agreed to draw up a list of places she wanted to visit. At the top of her must-see’s were Alcatraz, Chinatown, and a local burger chain called the In and Out.
Based on advice from travel editors at the Washington Post, we stayed at a B&B near Chinatown that was around the corner from the Powell Street cable car line. Among its attractions were a continental breakfast, afternoon tea, and Pip, the resident cat. Pip also proved to be a catalyst for our connecting with other people. Over tea and cookies that first day, we met an Asian woman who lived in Nob Hill and visited Pip regularly. Could she recommend a Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood? The Golden Dragon, she said. With directions from a helpful nail salon, we finally found the place. And when we did, Jasmine liked the fried rice and I the stir fry beef and cashews.
The B&B’s small dining room and its policy for shared tables also made it easy for us to talk with other tourists (many of them from overseas), a highlight of our trip. Among them was a young woman from Japan, on a four-day excursion to the city by the bay, who planned to do yoga in Golden Gate Park and a British couple who expressed regret about the Brexit vote and were appalled by the content, divisiveness and tone of our national election.
The manager of the B&B, originally from France, was also full of information about what buses to take, about Thai, Italian and Indonesian restaurants within walking distance (we liked the Italian one best) and which neighborhoods to avoid for reasons of personal safety.
Typical tourists in our choice of destinations, we walked across the Golden Gate Bridge on a cool windy day, visited a fortune cookie factory, bought chocolate in Ghirardelli Square and enjoyed a one-man band who fished for donations from the crowd that gathered to listen to him play on Fisherman’s Wharf.
There were also some unexpected (aren’t they always?) surprises: a church with an outdoor labyrinth, a post office in Chinatown where all of the clerks spoke Chinese and three commercial ships docked at a finger pier near the Embarcadero that were open for boarding. My Golden Eagle pass from the National Park Service enabled us to explore the three vessels for free and to learn their history.
Of course, we walked everywhere – down the crookedest street, up to Coit Tower, in search of cable cars and the ferry to Alcatraz. I’m not good at reading maps. Fortunately, Jasmine – with the help of her phone – is. We only got lost once and it was she who found our way. “The Rock” was her favorite destination. She had learned about the former prison at school and knew more about it than I – about the attempted escapes and the infamous inmates. We enjoyed touring the gardens that the prisoners had maintained and learning about the warden and corrections officer’s children who long ago had traveled to the mainland every day by ferry to attend school.
My favorite? The botanical garden which featured 12 grand pianos that anyone could play for up to 15 minutes. After listening to one impromptu concert by an Asian woman, we asked the pianist what had inspired her. She explained that her father had written the piece in 1981. She was playing his composition in tribute to his memory.
Downtime was also part of our trip. We waited – to ride the cable cars (at least 45 minutes each trip), for the ferryboat to Alcatraz and for the planetarium show to begin at the California Academy of Sciences. We waited for our food at the burger joint and at other restaurants that seemed to attract every parent and child within 50 miles. San Francisco in July was definitely fun, the weather was pleasantly cool (50s and 60s), but it was also an exercise in patience.
At one point, though, my usual calm crumbled. It wasn’t the city. It was Jasmine’s ever present phone which she tapped and clicked everywhere we went. At first I hesitated about saying anything. After all, we were on vacation. The problem, I told myself, was generational. I have a very basic cell phone, which I use infrequently. Jasmine was doing what other kids her age do every day of their lives. Still I felt excluded. Finally I told her that. Jasmine was very apologetic. She wasn’t texting, she said, she was taking pictures. Then how about sharing them with me? I said. We can talk about them. So we reached a compromise. Jasmine agreed to keep her phone in her pocket during meals. From then on, we got along fine, the occasional silence included.
At the end of the trip, when I asked her what she had learned about herself, Jasmine said, “I don’t like walking.” I laughed.
And what did she learn about me? “You have more energy than I do.”
Jasmine is 14. I am 69. That will change of course, but I hope we will always enjoy one another’s company.
Copyright © 2016 Susan Middaugh.
Susan Middaugh’s work has appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, the Baltimore Sun and on the website New-Works.org. Susan is also a playwright with short and full length works produced in the United States, Canada and England. The One Act Play Depot in Canada has published her short play, Such Good Neighbors. Several of her personal essays have appeared on this blog.
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By Florence Newman
My husband and I had dinner reservations at a restaurant called Las Clementinas that came highly recommended in the online reviews I’d read earlier in our hotel room. One review mentioned that the manager sometimes came out and played the piano for his patrons. The ambience sounded charming. The word clementinas reminded me of those miniature tangerines that you can buy in bags or boxes at the grocery store in winter, but I wondered if clementina might not mean something else in Spanish—merciful, maybe (although “the Merciful Ones” would be an odd name for a restaurant).
Las Clementinas was located in Panama City’s Casco Antiguo, the old colonial quarter, which has been compared to the French Quarter of New Orleans because of the narrow streets hemmed by pastel two-story townhouses with balconies trailing bougainvillea. We had the taxi drop us off an hour early so Howard and I could explore the area, grown popular with tourists since its gentrification after years of neglect. As we wandered down from the restaurant, city map in hand, we noticed that about half the buildings had been or were being restored to their former elegance; the rest remained boarded up and dilapidated. Sometimes an abandoned townhouse would abut a freshly and ornately refurbished one, like a disheveled tramp throwing his arm around the shoulders of a respectable lady. Locals and visitors likewise sidled past each other on the slim strip of sidewalk, herded there by compact cars impatiently claiming the road. After a few blocks, the close confines gave way to an expansive plaza ringed by small cafes that cast a fleet of tables out over the pavement, their unfurled umbrellas flapping in the breeze. (Rosetta Stone Spanish, Latin American Version, had introduced me to paragua, Spanish for “umbrella,” weeks before the word baño, which I would have thought far more useful to know. Why were the terms for “brunette” and “backpack” in Lesson 3 and the ones for “ambulance” and “emergency” in Lesson 15? Perhaps the software producers wanted to immerse the learner in the mundane rather than the disturbing. But “bathroom,” certainly, should be essential vocabulary.)
Avoiding the young people with menus who attempted to persuade us to stay and eat there in the plaza, we continued on, passing boutique shops and panaderias, until, abruptly, the entrance to an indoor artisanal market lured me in with a glimpse of bright color: emerald, azure, vermillion, and gold woven in geometric patterns over bags, dresses, and wall hangings, stall after stall of them. The proprietors of the stalls were mostly women, and some—short in stature, with glossy black hair and broad burnt-umber faces—were indigenous Panamanians. As I hesitated by their booths, they fingered the fabric enticingly and called out from the cool shadows, “Hecho a mano,” handmade. I had thought that I was adequately prepared for such encounters: Rosetta Stone had rehearsed me in “¿Cuanto questa?”(“How much does it cost?”) and “Muy caro” (“Too expensive”). But I wasn’t ready to actually interact, so I affected nonchalance and murmured, “Solo miranda,” a phrase that I hoped conveyed “Just looking,” my standard response to solicitous salespersons. I wondered, however, if I might be saying “Just watching,” which sounded rather creepy.
One problem with Rosetta Stone, I realized even before we left home, is that the program always accompanies the written or spoken Spanish with a picture illustrating the words: “La mujer camina” (The woman is walking) or “El niño tira la pelota roja” (The boy throws the red ball). How often in real life do conversations concern things taking place before one’s eyes? Alone with my iPad, I could fool myself into believing that I’d learned some Spanish when in fact I’d only learned to connect a series of words with a visual prompt. Ask me to follow a real conversation in Spanish and I was at a complete loss. Thus I drifted from stall to stall, smiling congenially but trying not to exhibit inordinate interest in the items for sale. Howard typically doesn’t enjoy shopping, but on this occasion he fixated upon a huge turtle carved of dark cocobolo wood that might have doubled the weight of his carry-on. Fortunately, his knowledge of Spanish was even more limited than mine, consisting solely of “Cerveza, por favor” (Beer, please), and thus we were unencumbered by souvenirs as we retraced our steps through the market and emerged again into the late afternoon sunshine.
Not far further, the street ended at a promenade where a row of white balusters marked the boundary between land and grey-blue sea. The slant of the sun gave the balustrade a dusty luminescence, and with the ancient buildings at either end rising precipitously above the waterline, the scene resembled a faded postcard of Venice. The impression of decaying grandeur was reinforced by the fact that many of the concrete posts had crumbled over the years, leaving irregular spaces along the row. The renovation of the Quarter had not reached this far, nor had, apparently, the flux of visitors, since we had the stretch of terrace virtually to ourselves: romantic, yes, but also somewhat sad and seedy. I recalled that the guidebooks to Panama City, while emphasizing that Casca Antigua’s reputation as unsafe for foreigners was outdated, had nonetheless advised against wandering there after dark or “looking like a tourist,” i.e., wearing shorts, flip-flops, and loud Hawaiian shirts. Up to this point, I’d accepted that I would never blend in with the natives and had made no attempt to conceal my camera and map, one of which was always visible. Now, however, noticing our isolation and especially after spotting a broken beach chair and what could have been a used condom on the rocks just below the seawall, I began to feel uncomfortably conspicuous. Besides, with only fifteen minutes before our dinner reservation, it was high time that we put the ragged grin of the balustrade behind us and rejoin the milling masses.
Since we had walked from one end of the promenade to the other, we decided to vary our route by returning to the restaurant on a road parallel to the one we’d come down. Street signs in this part of the city were rather haphazard, and the names on the map were too miniscule to read without a magnifying glass. Still, we only had to cut across a couple of blocks to reach our destination. How could we get lost? Easily, it seemed. When we cut across, we weren’t sure if we’d gone too many blocks or too few, or whether we were still south of the restaurant or north of it. Standing on an unfamiliar corner—though I could have sworn I’d seen that striped awning before—I tried to recall the appropriate lines from Rosetta Stone: “Disculpe. ¿Puede ayudarme? Somos perditos. ” (Excuse me. Can you help me? We’re lost.) Luckily, before I had to string two words together, a tall young man, recognizing the universal pantomime of the panicked traveler (furrowed brow, gesticulating at map) approached us and asked where we were trying to go. At least, I assumed that’s what he was asking and replied, “Las Clementinas.” He launched into a stream of speech from which I tried to catch phrases I knew, such as “izquierda” (left) and “doble a la derecha” (turn to the right). Nothing registered. Then, suddenly, “mochila”—at last a word I’d learned from Rosetta Stone. It meant. . . it meant. . . “backpack”! I looked up the street, in the direction he was pointing, and I saw a brown backpack, above a pair of legs, rapidly disappearing into the distance. A quick “mil gracias” to the helpful stranger, then we hurried after.
We arrived at Las Clementinas, which was attached to a hotel of the same name, precisely at 6:00 p.m., the hour of our reservation, although apparently neither haste nor a reservation had been necessary after all, since there were no other customers, not even at the gleaming granite and chrome bar. Every seat was empty, but for some reason the waiter led us to a rectangular table next to a window: Howard took the side facing into the restaurant, and I sat across from him facing the street. At one end of the room, an upright piano occupied part of the wall. As we studied the menu, another couple came in, also American but clearly more cosmopolitan because they carried no obvious tourist paraphernalia and because they lingered at the bar for a while before claiming a table near the door. Perhaps they were guests at the hotel. The four of us were the only patrons of Las Clementinas for the next hour and a half. I told myself that most people dined late, especially in cities, especially in Latin American, not at 6:00 p.m. like geriatric gringos. Because it was still light outside and service was slow, I found myself gazing out the window and upward, at the second-floor balcony of the building across the street. A man leaned on his forearms over the iron railing, his head bowed, showing only a crown of dark brown hair. He wore a baggy tee-shirt and knee-length baggy shorts that left plenty of room for his rounded belly. For a long time he didn’t move. Was he depressed? Merely tired? His figure was framed by a double door behind him that opened into a room into whose recesses I could not see.
My attention was distracted while the server took our order, and when I next looked up the daylight had dimmed a bit and the man was now standing.
Howard: “What are you looking at?”
Me: “There’s man on the balcony across the street.”
Howard: “You always get the best seat.”
During this exchange, a gentleman in a suit, presumably the manager, sat down at the piano and began to play American show tunes. He was catering to his current clientele, I decided, a little annoyed. We had flown a 2,000 miles to listen to “Memory” and “Some Enchanted Evening”? When he switched to classical music, I showed my appreciation by clapping politely at the end of each piece. Our appetizers had arrived before I glanced up at the balcony again. Dusk had truly fallen and there were now two figures in front of the French doors, the second a female. His wife? Had she come through the open door? She was wearing, as far as I could tell in the half light, one of those mid-calf muumuus that local working-class women favored. She ambled along the balcony, away from her companion and out of sight. Maybe she was a neighbor. I narrated the developments to Howard, then tucked into my salad. When I next looked, the scene had changed yet again.
“He’s taken off his shirt!”
Sure enough, he was leaning against the rail again, but now his plump arms and torso glistened in the dull light. At this point, in the brightness of the restaurant, I must have been visible to him too, a pale Anglo face above a white tablecloth sparkling with silverware. But he seemed oblivious to me and to the restaurant altogether: perhaps he had become inured to constantly seeing and being seen. Behind me, the manager’s piano serenaded us like the sound track to a silent movie.
For the next fifteen minutes I was preoccupied with my meal (and with Howard, of course) and when, feeling comfortably sated, I revisited the tableau outside, night had fallen and only the radiance of the room behind it illuminated the balcony. The woman was back, standing in front of the man, who was now seated in a chair. But wait! It wasn’t the same man—this fellow was wearing long pants and a shirt.
“She’s having an affair. With her neighbor. Her husband doesn’t know about it, but he suspects.”
Was the seated man her husband or her lover? Was the man in shorts despondent because his mistress wouldn’t leave her husband? Or had he been brooding on his suspicions of his wife’s infidelity? The woman faced the man in the chair but they didn’t touch: they must be talking.
El hombre está sentado. La mujer habla con el hombre.
The silhouettes remained static while we drank our coffee and waited for the check (“El cuente, por favor”). Sometime between our last bite of food and the first sip of coffee, the piano concert had ended. As we prepared to leave the restaurant, I looked through the glass pane once more and discovered that the portico above was empty. Beyond the French doors, in the glow of the interior, shadows passed slowly back and forth. Adiós, Las Clementinas. Hasta la vista.
Copyright © 2015, Florence Newman
Florence Newman is professor emerita at Towson University, where she taught in the English Department for 27 years. A specialist in Middle English literature, she has published and delivered conference papers on Chaucer, the Gawain-Poet, and medieval women writers. She grew up in Blacksburg, Va., reading books in her parents’ library and eating strawberries from her grandfather’s garden. She currently lives with her husband in Towson, Md., escapes occasionally to their farm on Virginia’s Eastern Shore, and travels farther afield when time, energy, and finances permit.
Doodlemeister is looking for first-person observations up to 1,500 words on any subject for this series. If need be, we’ll help you to edit and/or cut your piece. If you’d like to submit a story about something interesting you experienced, or simply thought about, please contact us by e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
Karl Ove Knausgaard
From My Saga, Part 2, NYT Magazine, March 15, 2015
Translated by Ingvild Burkey from the Norwegian Photo: Marita Algroy
“We drove west all evening. The murmuring heater, the even hum of the engine and the compact darkness outside had a hypnotic effect. It was as if we were no longer in this world, at least I felt that way, and I told Peter things I never told anyone. He sat without moving in his seat as I talked. Normally, it took me years to trust people. Peter, I trusted after a few hours. I had no idea why, but I believed everything my intuition told me; no knowledge seemed more accurate.”
Karl Ove Knausgaard
From My Saga, Part 1, NYT Magazine, March 1, 2015
Translated by Ingvild Burkey from the Norwegian Photo: Antti Aimo-Koivisto/Rex Features
“When we drove out of Cleveland a few hours later, I was worried. I hadn’t seen anything yet that I could write about. To be able to describe something, you have to feel some kind of emotional attachment to it, however faint. The external has to awaken something within; nothing means anything in itself, it is the resonance it produces, in the soul and in the language, that gives meaning to the thing described. Cleveland meant nothing to me.”
By Kathleen Barber
Provence, France, July 2014
As I climb from the village to the Château de Lacoste, the castle home of the Marquis de Sade, I realize that I am little more than a papered-over fourteen year old. I am still searching for my life, even though by now, I have lived most of it. I stop on the precariously steep path to wait for my friend, Lorraine. She has known me since I was fourteen and I marvel at her generosity in forgetting who I was back then: a swirling vortex of disappointment and desire laced with a foolish belief that there was something out there that would put me in order—if only I could find it.
A slice of gold catches my eye. I peer down a long, dark alley formed by two ochre buildings standing like angry lovers, an arms-length apart. Beyond the alley lies a quilt pattern of gold and green farmland. Lorraine passes me, good-naturedly complaining about my fascination with going up hills.
Hills excite me and Lorraine never says ‘no’, which is fortunate as we are spending a week in the Luberon, the hill country of Provence. Cobblestones make the path uneven: we aren’t ashamed to hold on to the handrails. In America, we probably wouldn’t be allowed to walk up here. In America, we are so bent on suing our neighbors for every bump that life gives us that we allow little risk . . . little adventure. I imagine the servants of the Marquis trudging this path, bringing grapes from the farm, a blue bowl recently fired, or perhaps a query about a daughter last seen following the Marquis through a side door of the local church. Hanging on a coral-colored wall of a butcher’s shop is a poster announcing Festival de Lacoste, an annual celebration of music and theater created by Pierre Cardin who is also the current owner of the Château. The poster lists Puccinni, Tchaikovsky, Natalie Dessay, and I want to hear everything.
We navigate the last of the cobblestone pathway and all at once are entering the upper courtyard of the eleventh century castle. At this level the building is mostly a limestone ruin. I wonder if there are ghosts. My breathing is heavy with anticipation; my heart is bursting with the discovery of a new world. I turn to see a road and a carpark nearby, but rather than feel foolish for having made the climb from the village, I feel sorry for the tourists who have driven. I smile at Lorraine and she grins back, then makes her way to the magnificent sculpture of a muscular man, his form unnaturally posed. The statue is both beautiful and disturbing, and its placement against the canvas of the sky, magnificent.
A sculpture of a disembodied, imprisoned head of the Marquis de Sade draws me to it. Though his victims have been long at rest, his torment is still not over. I shudder. Instead of thinking about gardens and wine, I find myself trying to reconcile the impulse of life that is sometimes loving and sometimes cruel. What has brought me here?
I go to the edge of the hill and look down and down and do not fall and do not step back. My eyes sweep over the Luberon valley, and I long to explore every town, stand in fields of grapes, climb every hill. A forgotten self writhes beneath the layers of family, career, husband, friends . . . of definitions unsought and dreams abandoned. Time is running out.
“Ready?” Lorriane asks. “There’s plenty more to see today.” I have known Lorraine since she was fourteen, too. When I look at her, I see her sisters, brother, parents—see my own family. Days of unfulfilled longing and moments of exaltation have brought us here. Layers of my life peel away and they float down the hill on a Provence breeze. There is more to see, and Lorraine and I are both still looking. We go back the way we came, and nothing looks the same.
Click images to enlarge. Copyright © 2015, Kathleen Barber
Kathleen Barber, on the right, stands with her friend Lorraine in a field of Provence lavender. Ms. Barber has had over fifteen plays produced in Baltimore community theaters, most recently In the Shadow of Lushan, produced by Fells Point Corner Theater as part of The Baltimore Playwrights Festival. Kathleen is a partner in a manufacturing business, The Fairlawn Tool & Die Company, founded by her father, which has served as the basis for several of her plays. She has had short stories published in Teen Magazine, New England Senior Citizen, and The Maryland Poetry Review.